#am i allowed to put a note that says well i HAVE a typewriter and those are two very different vibes. it’s faster to hand write but also:

[crossbackpoke-check]

thank you to @bhagell!! choose and then tag people you want to get to know better <3

coffee or tea | early bird or night owl | chocolate or vanilla | spring or fall | silver or gold | pop or alternative | freckles or dimples | snakes or sharks | mountains or fields | thunder or lightning | egyptian mythology or greek mythology | ivory or scarlet | flute or lyre I opal or diamond | butterflies or honeybees I macarons or eclairs | typewritten or handwritten | secret garden or secret library I rooftop or balcony | spicy or mild | opera or ballet | london or paris | vincent van gogh or claude monet | denim or leather | potions or spells | ocean or desert | mermaids or sirens | masquerade ball or cocktail party

tagging: @whitenikes @catboy-mahura @gordiemeow @songsandswords @2minutes4yeehawing (if y’all haven’t already) and anybody who wants to participate!!

[teaandspite]

The Great Goodreads Diss List (Part 1)

Context: For many years now, I have been collecting funny lines from Goodreads reviews to share with my coworkers. (I do collection development, reader's advisory, and weeding at a public library, so I read a LOT of reviews)

Are some of these, perhaps, rather mean? Yes, but they are also very funny, and come from a place of honest frustration. In the tradition of Bargepole threads and lists everywhere, names and titles have been censored.

"First, I want to say that I understand how hard it is to write a book and how amazing it is when it is actually published. Congrats to the author for that accomplishment. That said--"

"Warning: This review will be lengthy due to pure hatred."

"I found myself feeling really, really annoyed with the world that this book is allowed to exist. We live in a universe where the passenger pigeon is extinct but this book goes along merrily being read by unsuspecting lovers of words and ideas and stories? It just seems like too much, you know?"

"Don't do it. Don't spring the cash for the hardcover. Instead, eat an entire bag of Twizzlers, spend some money you don't have at a high-end department store, look up on Facebook the shady college boyfriend that made you cry, research the current value of your home or 401K and then read all about how the big hedge fund managers are faring during the economic crisis. You'll feel about the same stomach pain if you waste your time reading this book."

"This wretched novel begins with the mugging of an old lady and it appears I may be in the process of repeating that loathsome crime as [author] was 78 when she wrote it. It is not nice to put the boot into such a poor defenseless old creature lying there with only a damehood, a Booker Prize and a few million quid. It’s a nasty job but somebody has to do it."

"I think this is the way dead people would write, if they could."

"I am considering setting up SPABB: Society for the Protection of Accurate Book Blurb. This blurb appears to have been written by someone from the publishers who met [the author] the night before, got very drunk, lost his notes and then constructed something in a fug of hangover the next morning."

"I congratulate [the author] on the early half of his book, which was thoroughly fun and made me laugh and think. I congratulate [the author] on the second half of his book, for finishing it. It reads like that was difficult."

"…a woman whose taste in contemporary literature has roughly the same batting average as a pitcher in the National League."

"The author is a pompous windbag."

"Recommends it for: No one. Recommended to me by: A friend who apparently wished to cause me great suffering."

"Makes me wonder: is it possible to obtain similes at a volume discount?"

"The repeated phrases made me want to mail a thesaurus to the author."

"I'm disappointed in myself for finishing this book."

"if the author described [character's] eyes as "obsidian" one more time I was tempted to write her and ask if her thesaurus broke."

"They say that an infinite number of monkeys with an infinite number of typewriters would, if given infinite time, eventually produce the complete works of William Shakespeare. [This book], on the other hand, would probably take the average monkey just under two hours."

"I can't imagine what the author had to do to get this nadir of Western literature printed on innocent trees, but he does seem to know a LOT about being well-connected in New York."

"This book is so bad it is almost worth reading just to make you appreciate the other books you are reading."

"Reads like it was written by a brilliant author, the night before it was due."

"raises interesting questions, like: can a book be so bad as to constitute an act of terrorism"

"has this author ever spoken to a human woman"

"This acorn has fallen so far from the tree that it can’t even see the forest."

"I’m guessing they are touted as ‘beach reads’ because no one will care if they get dropped into the ocean."

"This book begins with all the energy of a hand vacuum near the end of its battery life, and the pace doesn't quicken much from there."

"At least everybody’s eyes stayed the same color this time around.”

Part 2

Part 3

[bulkyphrase]

Post-CACW Stony: a fic rec list

I've been on a Captain America: Civil War kick lately, and since I know that Steve-friendly CW Stony fic can be hard to find, I've put together a rec list!

I am thoroughly team cap, but these range from being anti-accords to just not getting into the issue, and all are Steve-friendly as long as you can accept a lot little loving Steve-whump.

Atlas by nanasekei (@elcorhamletlive) (Not Rated, Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, 11,505 words)

Summary: They don't hear each other.

Eigengrau by vorkosigan (@the-vorkosigan) (Teen And Up Audiences, 16,811 words)

Summary: Tony is captured; he doesn't know by whom, or why. He doesn't know how much time has passed since. What he knows is, he can now hear something in the adjacent cell, and that 'something' sounds a lot like Steve Rogers.

Nights When the Wolves Are Silent, and Only the Moon Howls by Cluegirl, Defiler_Wyrm (@cluegrrl) (Mature, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, 77,612 words)

Note: has a Stucky element too, but the relationship between Steve and Tony is the main focus.

Summary: “Could you drop all that stoic shit and be my freaking-the-hell-out wingman for just like, five seconds here?” Steve wasn’t sure he could think of anything he wanted less to do than to freak out about his wounds just then though, so he reached across his chest and gingerly patted Sam’s clenched knuckles. “It’ll be fine,” he promised, believing it. “Serum’s handled worse.” “You know, I actually believe you,” Sam allowed after a long second of glaring. “Which is deeply alarming, considering how much of your connective tissue I’ve touched in the last 4 hours. Now you wanna tell me what Russoff’s men did to you that made it look like you got mauled by a bear?” Steve flinched, then breathed the memory down to size. “Not a bear,” he murmured. “Wolves.”

More below the cut!

(trust me when i say) i'll get back to you by machi_kun (@machi-kun) (General Audiences, 1,549 words)

Summary: “Me and Rogers are not on speaking terms anymore.”

An Infinite Number Of Monkeys At Typewriters (Or, Steve and Tony Finally Get It Right) by JenTheSweetie (@jenthesweetie) (Mature, 18,864 words)

Summary: Tony blinked up at the face staring down at him. This was impossible. This was definitely 100% not possible, he had not just started giving a good morning handy to - “Steve?” After the events of Civil War, Tony and Steve wake up in bed next to each other in an alternate universe. It goes about as well as you'd expect it to.

And Miles to Go Before I Sleep by Cluegirl (@cluegrrl) (Mature, Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, 152,765 words)

Summary: They all made mistakes. They all have regrets. They all have nightmares, suspicions, and questions they'd like to ask. And they all left business behind them that was never quite finished. This is the story of how the Avengers ask those questions, get their answers, and come together like fucking adults to make things right again.

Bring Him Home by seventymilestobabylon (@seventymilestobabylon) (Explicit, 13,769 words)

Summary: Tony misses Steve very badly after the Accords. Some days he deals with it better than other days. (a fic featuring the booty call flip phone, minor kidnappings, and time jumps between chapters because the election has been happening and my brain has been too mush to make a proper plot)

Conjugal Visits by xtricks (Explicit, 4,252 words)

Summary: AU: Steve Rogers gets captured fairly soon after Civil War and sent to the Raft. Tony discovers that trying to appease your enemies doesn’t work and ends up a prisoner too.

Down Came the Rain by captainoutoftime (@captain-outoftime) (Explicit, 75,274 words)

Summary: A mission goes badly for Natasha, who is discovered de-aged to three years old. She recognizes no one, but every kid knows Captain America. When Tony grudgingly makes a call, Steve makes good on his promise to answer. Steve has to work together with Tony to take care of a traumatized child and figure out how to turn their itsy bitsy spider back into a Black Widow. Neither of them really want to talk about what happened in Siberia, but living in close quarters, they have to come to some sort of peace - even if it means addressing some feelings they'd rather not admit to having. As they work together to solve the problem of a re-emerging Red Room, Steve uncovers something he never expected to find again: family.

Hating Steve Rogers by nanasekei (@elcorhamletlive) (Not Rated, Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, 16,243 words)

Summary: The thing about hating Steve Rogers is that it shouldn’t be easy - but it really, really is.

I Have Questions by YourFadedGlory (HisNameWasAce) (@yourfadedglory) (Not Rated, 2,808 words)

Summary: There is only so much that Steve can carry. His legs quiver and his heart aches, he looks skyward, and in a startling moment of clarity he lets the shield go. Gouged and battered, it rings like a bell when it hits the stone floor. He wonders for a split moment if it will weigh on Tony the way it has weighed on him.

The Crying Game by fohatic (@fohatic) (Explicit, Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, 36,403 words)

Summary: Steve Rogers stared at the dimly glowing digital screen of the little burner phone, rereading the text message as if it might somehow give away something he missed the first dozen times he scrutinized it. His frown only deepened, though, brows drawing together with consternation as the 88 characters only left him with an even more ponderous sense of uncertainty. If you meant what you wrote, I'll be at the Swissotel Sarajevo, 4/18. Presidential Suite. 9pm. Come alone. ...Nearly a year after Steve and Tony's fallout—and only weeks after press rumors that Tony and Pepper's engagement was inexplicably called off—Steve gets a message on the dedicated burner phone. Despite his instinctive reservations, he's compelled to answer the mysterious call. An approximately canon-compliant story.

the hope that kills you by meidui (@meidui) (Mature, 1,227 words)

Summary: Steve used to go on so much about freedom and choice. If we sign this, we surrender our right to choose. Some of the freedom he loved was big, big enough for him to lay his life down for over and over, and some of the freedom he loved was small, like the wind in his hair when he took his motorcycle out, but now he has to sob and take it when Tony sucks a deep flowering bruise where his prison uniform couldn’t possibly cover and whispers in his ear, “Who’s gonna help you now? Where are you gonna run?”

live for the hope of it all by meidui (@meidui) (Mature, No Archive Warnings Apply, 1,880 words)

Note: This is a sequel to the hope that kills you

Summary: “You can keep me here, can’t you?” Steve asks a little desperately as Tony kneels over him, spreading himself out all the better for Tony to take. He must have really hated his cell on the Raft, Tony thinks before he loses himself in Steve’s body, and for a little while, everything is the same as it has been for the past six months. It’s only after, in the dark and quiet of his own bedroom with Steve sprawled sleepy and heavy across his chest that Tony realises— This is their cell now.

The Phone by AvengersNewB (@avengersnewb) (Mature, 9,039 words)

Summary: Tony hates the flip phone Steve sends him, but he keeps it close at all times, and it never rings until it finally does and the news might help put things into perspective - Captain America : Civil War fix-it. or The phone can't take the place of your smile. [podfic added as chapter 2]

the things we invent when we are scared by nanasekei (@elcorhamletlive) (Not Rated, 18,305 words)

Summary: Steve is trapped in a dream machine, programmed to make him believe he's living his happiest fantasy. Tony goes inside to wake him up, but what he finds is a lot more complicated than he expected.

there's nothing but blue skies by Meatball42 (Mature, Major Character Death, 647 words)

Summary: “This isn’t good,” Steve said grimly.

[mysoftboybensolo]

The Alienist and the Soprano

Chapter 8: The Confusion

A/N:  This was inspired by Laszlo’s love of opera and my thought on what if he fell for an opera singer. Multi chapter. Canon divergence, there is no Mary Palmer here (I loved Mary and Laszlo, so I don’t feel like I could have her here and have him be with another woman). A mix of show and book canons. No Y/N, OC named Evelina Lind.

A03: https://archiveofourown.org/works/32029150

Pairing: Laszlo Kreizler x Fem OC!

Summary: The last thing Laszlo Kreizler ever expected while investigating the death of children was to fall in love, and with an opera singer no less!

Warnings: Age gap, angst, kidnapping.

The next few days was one of the most tense anyone in the group had ever had. Unlike their other cases, the person they were on the look out for hadn’t done anything note worthy to the police and therefore not worthy of police involvement. So, it was left up to the team to handle this themselves. It was Laszlo who came up with the plan, each of them would take turns going to the opera with Evelina was a guard, and Sara would protect her from the safety of her home. It was agreed upon, particularly at the insistence of Evelina, that no one at the opera would know, as it was seen to be for the best, for if they knew, it could arouse suspicion and possibly frighten Winston away.

The first day Lucius and Marcus watched over her, and though they would have done whatever was needed to be done to help, they were glad that they were replaced by John. Out of the three men, John was the more intimidating one, and if any scuffle were to happen, he’d be the better fighter. It escaped no one’s eyes when they noticed John at the opera, and the rumors slowly grew of his reasons why.

These rumors had yet to reach the ears of the doctor, who during the day kept an eye on both his children and Evelina, then in the evening visiting her and Sara, checking in for any signs of disturbance. Sara got to see firsthand the kind of meetings that Evelina and Laszlo have had when she’d go to his office, and she began to wonder. Is it possible that a soprano and an alienist would be a love match? It seemed silly at first, but she couldn’t help but to wonder.

After four days of no sign of Winston, John and Laszlo wondered about what to do, and Laszlo decided that he would talk once again to Roosevelt and if he couldn’t move him, then he himself will go to the opera with Evelina and see if it will lure Winston out. Somehow, Evelina found out and after the rehearsal the next day, Evelina hurried to John and asked, “John, is it true that Laszlo is going to watch over me tomorrow?”

“Well, yes.”

“Why?”

He looked at her confused, “To watch over you.”

“No, I mean…John, please convince him not to. I am sure that Winston is very jealous of him, and I fear that if he sees Laszlo with me, something dreadful will happen.”

“But perhaps it will do us good. If Laszlo is what triggers him, then it will mean an end to this.”

“Not at the risk of Laszlo’s life. Oh, please,” she asked, her hands gripping his jacket desperately, “Convince him not to!”

He looked down at her amazed. “If it really means that much to you.”

She released her hands from his jacket, looked away and blushed. “I just don’t want anyone else to get hurt because of me.”

He nods, then says, “Listen, why don’t we get a little lunch? I think it’ll do us both some good.”

He takes her to a small café where they enjoy a cup of tea and cakes and begin to relax a bit. “Oh, I think that was terribly romantic, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise,” she says, after he tells the story of how he tried to woo a girl from his college years.

John chuckled, then said, “Laszlo calls me a hopeless romantic, sometimes as if it is a hopeless flaw.”

“Then it is a flaw we share.”

“Funny, we both…” John stopped short, a quick glance of fear of revealing too much, then distracted himself with a sip of his tea.

Evelina smirked and finished his thought. “Two romantics, in love with cynical people.”

John looked at her and a wash of relief overcame him. At last, someone he could speak of his feelings on the subject to. “How could you tell?”

“You’ve hidden it quite well, but I’ve seen it in your eyes, they just glow when she comes into view, or even the mere mention of her name, you light up.” She bit her lip, then asked, “How could you tell with me?”

“Oh, at first, I hadn’t been sure, but then when I saw that you hadn’t run off after his probing, I only thought of two things, either you are a mad woman, or a woman in love.” They chuckled, then John, very seriously asked, “Do you think that there is any hope for me? I mean, is there in any way, I might be able to win her over? She never seems interested, and yet she is.”

She takes a moment to consider her words, then she speaks. “I think perhaps Sara is worried what it will mean. To her, love and independence cannot mix. It must be one or the other, but she doesn’t realize that she can have both. If the man loves her enough to understand her need of freedom, he will earn her eternal love, and I think you could be that man.”

“And I think you could very well be the woman to bring happiness to Laszlo. If he allows himself to have it.”

She couldn’t help but to smile at the thought. Yes, John thinks she could make Laszlo happy, but he did not confirm whether Laszlo felt the same. But nevertheless, it gave her some courage and thought she might do something about it.

Sara and Laszlo walked around the park, hoping to catch a glimpse of this man. Evelina gave a detailed account of her brother; age 27, tall and slender, dirty blonde hair, blue eyes, sharp features, and full mouth. The most distinct feature, she said, was faint scars down the left side of his face from where she scratched at him when fending him off. They walked around the city every day and didn’t seem to be any closer.

“He is around here, I know it,” Sara said, “He would never be too far from where she could be.”

“Yes,” Laszlo agreed, “The predator never loses sight of his prey.”

“I better return home; Evelina said her rehearsal is half today and I should be there to meet her. What time is it?”

Laszlo reached for his pocket watch, but out fluttered was a handkerchief and he quickly snatched it back, as if hoping it would not be seen. But Sara saw and her mouth fell open at the sight. It was a white handkerchief with lace edging and embroidered blue bird. That was where it went, and Sara had read plenty of stories to know that such a gesture was always fueled by romantic feelings. Laszlo was in love with Evelina. Of course, it makes so much more sense now. Of all the times he spoke of Evelina, how awkward and unsure he was around her, which he never was around anyone else, for he was perhaps one of the most confident insecure men she ever knew. And yet, around Evelina, Sara could see his wall slightly lowered for her, which he never did unless someone took whacks at it at first.

“I um,” Laszlo stumbled with his words, “I have to go, meeting Roosevelt now. Goodbye.” He hurried off, avoiding any words with Sara. He heard his heart pounding in his ears knowing that Sara will put the pieces together. To help distract him, Laszlo hurried to his meeting, hoping to convince Roosevelt to help in their case. Theodore Roosevelt is a good man, but he is also a practical man. “My friend, there is barely any proof that this man is after her, or rather that there is any man after her. Any one from her building could have taken her knickers, it may not even be her brother. With her profession, it is not hard to see her dealing with this kind of thing. And if I were to assign an officer to every woman who has been accosted by a man, I’d have not only no men left, but I’d have to hire more!”

“But regardless, whether it is her brother, suitor or some pervert off the street, she should not be intimidated by anyone and feel frightful of stepping out of her door. Please Theodore, I am just asking for some protection for her.”

He thinks about it, but he shakes his head. “I am sorry. Give me some concrete proof and then I’ll see about assigning someone. I appreciate that you are doing this as a favor to John, but even he must know my limits.”

Laszlo looked at him confused. “John?”

“Yes. I mean after all, for all the times they spent together, it’s clear he has an interest in her. And I must say, what a handsome couple they make,.”

Laszlo stared at him, feeling a twinge of pain in his chest, and gulped. “Do they?”

“Of course! You can tell she clearly favors him above all others. Why, as I was heading over here, I saw them at a café, and you should have seen how they were laughing and going on. It does make sense, when you think of it; both are artists, he with a pen and she with her voice. It is a good match, I think, and he better make the proposal soon if he doesn’t want to lose her.” A knock at the door interrupted them, and Theodore sighed. “Well, I better be going. Good day, Laszlo.”

Laszlo barely acknowledged Theodore as he became lost in his thoughts and insecurity. Walking back at the institute in a daze as he thought over everything. He had been terribly mistaken, as it seemed to be his curse, in matters of the heart. He had felt certain that her frequent visits were because of growing feelings, but it had to have been because she wanted to be kind to the old man who saved her from abuse. Yes, that had to be it. And he was the fool to allow his heart to be taken by someone too good for him. This heartbreak was awful, and once in the safety of his office, he grabbed a pillow and screamed a painful aching sound into it.

Sara worked at her typewriter, working on the paperwork of this case, when she felt a presence. Turning in her chair, she sighed as she saw Evelina sitting on the couch, a pensive look on her face, as if it was a matter of life and death. “I didn’t hear you come back.”

Evelina jumped at the sound of Sara’s voice, but relaxed and offered a small smile. “I only just came in.” She bit her lip, then asked, “Sara, may I ask you a question?” She patted the spot next to her, allowing Sara to sit beside her. “Have you ever been in love? I mean, really and truly in love?”

Sara was stumped by the question. Unsure of how to answer that question. “I-what do you mean?”

A slight smiled appeared on her lips as she continued. “I only ask because, well, because I need some advice. I am in love. You see, at first, I thought it was just a little infatuation, that perhaps because he rescue me, I had developed feelings that weren’t really there. Then as I got to know him better, I found that he is brilliant, brave and good. Oh, I know he isn’t perfect, he has his faults and everyone knows it, but deep down, he is a fine man, one of the finest men I have ever known. He cares a lot more than he lets on and I know it comes from a place of hurt so that is why he shields his heart. But it didn’t stop me from loving him. I know I do. What would you do, Sara? What would you do if you were me?”

Hearing her words, Sara felt convinced of who she spoke of, and pushed down her own feelings of disappointment and pain. Then her thoughts shifted to Laszlo. Poor Laszlo. He no doubt will be crushed to find out her true feelings, but like the gentleman he can be, he’d never say anything if it means another’s happiness. “If you truly love this man, you must tell him. And I am sure that John will be happy to hear of your feelings.”

Evelina looked at her puzzled then shook her head. “Sara, I am not speaking of John. Oh, do not get me wrong, he is a fine man and a good friend, but how could I even think to have feelings for him when it is clear he adores you and you him?”

Sara shook her head. “Um, that is not, we are not…No.”

Evelina chuckled and gave her a look. “Keep telling yourself that, Sara.”

Sara then gave a puzzled look and said, “Forgive me, but if it is not John, then-” she stopped herself and remembered who else was there to save her that night. “Laszlo. You love Laszlo!”

Evelina nodded. “I know that to many it is a peculiar match, but they don’t know him as I do. He is brash, closed off, and such a dear!” She says the last words with such adoration.

Sara tried to bite back a smile, but she couldn’t help it. “Has Laszlo ever said anything to you?”

“No. I think perhaps he sees me only as a friend, but I swear, I’d see him looking at me in a certain way, says a word, or perhaps touch me in a way that makes me wonder if he feels the same as I do. But I think it’s only my vain desire for him to reciprocate.”

Taking her hands, Sara smiled and with confidence said, “Evelina, I can safely assure you, you are not wrong. Laszlo does feel the same, I know he does.”

“Has he said so?”

“Not in the exact words, but everything else he does and says have told all I could ever know. Whenever someone mentions you, his eyes just have a certain glow in them, and I’ve never seen him be so at peace with himself and the world until you came.”

Evelina’s eyes lit up. “Really?”

“Really. And I think you should tell him now. If I were you, I wouldn’t waste another second and let it all out. And I guarantee you, he will do the same.” Sara ran a friendly finger down Evelina’s face and smiled. “You two will be very happy, I know it.”

Sara walked Evelina out and hailed a carriage, watching her get in and instructed the driver to stay until Evelina returns back to the house. Evelina popped her head out of the window, took Sara’s hand and smile. “Would you like to know something Sara? When you said about his eyes having that glow? I noticed the same in John’s eyes when he sees you. Just thought you’d like to know.” And with that, the carriage raced off to the institute.

He had not expected to see her, for the plan was for her to go from the opera house back to Sara’s and if she were to ever go out, it would be accompanied by another. And yet, here she was, standing in his office, looking radiant, excited, and happy. She looked so happy, why wouldn’t she? She just spent the afternoon with John Moore, handsome, charming, able bodied John Moore. What more could a woman want? And he felt his heart crack at the thought, and he silently began to berate himself for daring to hope that he could be loved, for once in his life, to have someone love him back. Such a foolish hope, really, a waste of a dream.

“I presume you had a pleasant day with John.”

“Yes. Today has been enlightening, to say the least.”

“Yes, I am sure.” He fiddled with his bad hand, then suddenly became insecure and covered it with his good left one. “Evelina, I feel that as we have gotten close in a few short months, I feel safe in saying this.” She looked at him with such tenderness and joy that it sent a quiver through his heart and he thought he couldn’t go through with it. “John is a good man, can even be a great man with the right kind of woman beside him. He has some rather unfavorable habits, the brothels, the drinking, and gambling, but he would gladly give it all up. For you.”

He did not notice her hopeful expression turn to confusion, then hurt. Why was he saying all this? Was Sara wrong in her assumption?

“I think it would be a rather nice match, truly. And I can only see a promising and bright future for you both.” The next words he had to turn away, for this was the hardest part. “And I am sure that with everything in your life, you’ll not be able to see me as much. Oh, we will see each other at parties and at the opera, but I think that it would be best that you do not come to see me as much as you did. Certain professions leave rather damaging marks on those through association and it would be best that before any damage is done, that we agree that we should not see much of the other in the capacity such as this.”

Evelina stood, blinking to hold back the tears. “I see. Well, thank you, doctor, I shall take your advice. And you needn’t worry anymore of seeing me. In fact, I may even let you know when I shall be performing, so you need not bother coming. Good day.” She hurried out before he could say anything and once out of the house, she began to cry. She cried through the carriage ride back to Sara’s house and then ran in and up the stairs, sobbing terribly.

“Evelina?” Sara and Tessie looked at each other and hurried up the stairs, finding Evelina across the bed, sobbing into a pillow. “Evelina, dear. What happened?”

“He doesn’t feel the same! You were wrong, Sara. He doesn’t feel the same at all!”

“But what did he say? Evelina?” She continued to sob, and Sara turned to the maid and asked her to make a strong cup of coffee. As she waited, Sara continued to try and soothe her friend and figure out what happened. She tried to encourage Evelina to drink, but she nearly destroyed the cup when she pushed it away. “Evelina, please, tell me what happened.”

Evelina looked up and managed to say through the tears, “I went to tell him what I felt, but all he did was go on about how John and I would be a good couple and tried to warn me of his bad habits. Then,” fresh tears appeared but Sara continued to rub circles on her back, trying to calm her, “He said that we should not see each other anymore. He said that certain professions can be damaging to others.” She threw her fist down on the bed in hurtful anger, “He was talking about me! My profession as a singer is damaging to him! I bring shame to him but won’t even say the words! He couldn’t even look at me when he said it! He doesn’t feel the same, if anything, I think he hates me! Oh, God, how can I bear it?”

Sara looked down in shock. No, she was certain that Laszlo felt the same, Evelina’s handkerchief was the definite proof. Why would Laszlo say such things to her? “Evelina, I know I am not wrong and I shall get to the bottom of this.” Removing herself from the bed, she turned to Tessie and said, “Stay with her and try to calm her down. I’ll be right back.”

“What shall you do, Miss?” Tessie asked after her.

“I am going to knock some sense into that man, even if it means I must do so literally.” And down the stairs she went in a flash.

Laszlo had been holding this book for ten minutes, staring at its pages. His eyes looked over the words, but his mind couldn’t register their meaning. He replayed the interaction, trying to find the mistake. Perhaps it was the truth that made it difficult for her to accept, or perhaps it was how he said the words, but he couldn’t quite understand why she made that comment of warning him ahead of time when she would perform. She never struck him to be a volatile person, so if she was angry, she could have said so.

A powerful bang resonated in the room, making Laszlo jump and look up. It was Sara, the door swinging back from the force she gave it, her face a calm fury.

“Sara, what is the matter?” He got up, setting the book aside, and moved closer, “Are you hurt?”

“I am not here for myself but for another. Someone who is hurt and therefore I share her pain.”

Laszlo removed his glasses. “I am afraid I do not follow.”

“What happened just now with Evelina?”

“Um, I tried my best to encourage her pursuit of John, but I supposed I over shared of his past as she was solemn as she left.”

Sara shook her head. “Oh, men! How on earth did we ever allow you lot run the world? You hurt her terribly! The poor girl has been a sobbing wreck. I only managed to get her to calm down enough to tell me what happened. And even when I left, she was still a mess.”

The thought of her being hurt because of his carless words broke him and he cursed himself for his bluntness. “My intentions were never meant to hurt, but to encourage and to warn. I would never dream to hurt Evelina, it pains me now to think my words made her even shed a single tear.”

Sara took a deep breathe, as if to try and calm her fury, then spoke. “Laszlo, do you know why she came to see you?”

“Because of John.”

“Because of you! If you weren’t so filled with self-loathing and pigheadedness, you would have realized that she is in love with you!”

Laszlo wasn’t sure if what he heard was correct, he couldn’t be. Evelina in love with him? “What would make you say such a thing?”

“Because she told me so herself. When she did, I encouraged her to tell you, as I know you love her. No, don’t deny it,” she quickly cut him off, “I’ve seen it in your eyes, in your voice and manners, and if that wasn’t enough, I saw that you carry her handkerchief over your heart.” Laszlo’s hand instinctively reached up to the spot where he had safely tucked the material, and he felt his face grow warm at being caught. “Admit it, you love her.”

“Yes,” he softly admitted.

“Deeply.”

“More.”

“Then I beg you, come with me and let us clear this all up.”

“No. Even if what you say is true, she deserves someone better than me. She’s young, beautiful and entire life ahead of her. I’d only weigh her down.”

“Laszlo, do you realize that you are about to give up a chance to find happiness? Here is someone who loves and adores you and yet you refuse to believe it. Even if you refuse to think of yourself, think of her! She thinks you not only do not love her, but that you don’t want to be associated with her anymore due to her being in the opera. She thinks you outright despise her and that she brought shame to you by mere association.”

Laszlo was mortified beyond belief. So that was why she made that comment and stormed out of here. His words were never to imply she brought shame to him, but rather the other way around, that he would bring shame to her. “Yes, I must fix this.” He slipped his jacket on and followed Sara out the door, thinking only of Evelina. He tried to rehearse what he’d say to her, the proper words to correct his mistake. He just hoped that he was not too late.

When they arrived, Sara climbed out then froze. Laszlo looked out and was going to question Sara’s hesitation, but noticed that her door was ajar. Pulling out her pistol, Sara and Laszlo carefully entered the house, looking around. In the den, Sara noticed Tessie laid across the floor. Laszlo went to her and took her pulse. “It’s alright. She’s unconscious.”

“Evelina was in her room last I saw her.”

Laszlo felt a surge of panic as he ran up the stairs, skipping a few steps, and barged into the room. “Evelina? Evelina!” The room was empty, but there clearly was a fight as the sheets were pulled off the bed, a vase was shattered and scratch marks on the doorframe.

“Laszlo!” He hurried down the stairs, hoping that Sara had found her, but instead, he saw her holding up a note. “It’s addressed to you.”

Curious, he took the letter and nearly torn it in half opening it. He recognized the handwriting, the same that smashed through his window.

Dear Dr. Kreizler,

Though we have never met, you and I have a score to settle. You see, we both have something in common and that tie is Miss Evelina Lind. I urge you to meet me in the cellars of the opera house, in the prop rooms. I expect you alone, for this is a party of three and it would be dreadfully rude to invite others.

Sincerely,

Miss Lind and I shall be waiting eagerly of your arrival.

Winston Lind.

Laszlo felt his blood run cold. He has her. And it was his fault.

Tagging: @monsieurbruhl​ @flutterskies​ @sokoviandelights​​, @cazzyimagines​, @rumblelibrary​​, @fictionlandslanddreams​​, @violetmuses​​ and @barnesxnobles​. If anyone else would like to be tagged, please let me know!

[jerrylevitch]

Do you think or know whether Jerry ever regretted all of the affairs and sleeping around? Or if he looked back on it differently later on? I know he'd talked about it kind of jokingly, which i'm sure was a default/defense mechanism. I also get all the factors that contributed to that behavior so I don't really judge him for it, and he wasn't the only one doing it by any means...I was just wondering if you had a take on it or knew anything. Still love him, that horny little bugger lol ;)

He did feel guilty and for awhile, and he tried to be faithful to Patti in his own mind by not finishing inside the woman he was with. According to Jane McCormick:

"Jerry was almost bashful when it came to having sex, but he thoroughly enjoyed it. Still, he had a quirky way of dealing with his loyalty to his wife. He would not climax inside me, no matter what kind of sex we had."

Of course you'll see Jerry boasting about his sexual escapades and other crap like he didn't care when he was older like on E True Hollywood Story or Playboy, and GQ Magazine, but I always go back to this passage that Jerry wrote to himself and consider this the truth, because here he didn't have to put on a show for anyone, or try to look macho by saying he had all these women.

From Patti Lewis' book:

“Jerry was a master at candidly acting out personal vignettes about three areas of real life: relationships, situations, and predicaments. They form the backbone of his comedy. He nurtured many relationships and wrote volumes on how he felt. I tried to understand what he was saying, beyond the words, when I read the notes he sent me; the “I luv you’s” written across my makeup mirror at home; and the longer messages I found on my desk.” ”At times I found him five parts philosopher, one part humanist, ten parts deep thinker, one part spiritual, fifty parts comedian, twelve parts unpredictability, and twenty-one parts everything else. In 1966, one late summer afternoon, I found the following and took it to the garden to read:”

”To ask how deeply I feel is like asking, ‘Where is God?’” ”We can answer with nothing more than “if’s” and “maybe’s.” “In other words, the answers are really intangibles, yet I’m going to attempt to answer one of them to the best of my knowledge and awareness.

My feelings, where my wife is concerned, are very deep and very sacred…She is the very reason I live…for she is the only reason I know that makes living worth anything…and the boys that she produced for me are equally worth it, but one day they’ll leave and then there will be only us…

She is the first human thing that has ever cared about me or for me…Oh, there were little dogs, and little boys and a few beings that cared, but not enough that I could have survived.

It was only when she came into my life that I realized I had a life to live…I was always made to feel that I was given a case of breath out of pity…It was as though someone said, “We have plenty, give him some.” Then I knew I had to make good and be someone, or something a little better than those that gave me an occasional handout… As I got older, I didn’t much care about being better than them anymore…I just cared about staying alive and getting some degree of respect as a human thing on God’s Earth…I knew he didn’t mean to have anyone just exist…but he meant fur us all to have a meaning and a purpose. I have to try to get my thoughts put in the proper place so I can put things down that really count! Now then, if my wife was the first to care and to really treat me like a human being with love and warmth and the like…the big question is, “How could I have treated this special being as I have?” My answer that I find coming is… After so many years of being made to feel like nothing…I guess I worked on being something so much more than nothing…that I found myself making the real somethings around me nothing in the haste that drove me to be something…The responsibility of taking care of the loves I had always had made me feel like, “Why should I care for what one day will discard me anyway?” I don’t know if that’s the case, but it sounds right…and coming from someone who loves those tremendous loves as I do, it certainly confuses me, too… My constant silence, I think, has been fear…of what my love would think of what I’ve done…fear of doing the wrong thing…and losing the respect I have always felt I got from her…to be placed in the position of being disrespected and disregarded again has always knotted up my insides so badly that silence seemed the only way to avoid the possibility of rejection…very often my hiding was part and parcel of that fear…The feeling of being nothing again, or being looked at with disdain, has, for as long as I can remember, been tearing me up inside…And those tears have come out looking like torment…Well, tormented I am, and have been, and pray one day soon I won’t know the feeling anymore… My wrapping myself up so completely in my work helped for a while, but the “ego” that came across was never there…I have none. But I work desperately at displaying “ego” to cover the real emptiness I know inside… As a director I have found infinite peace…because I am to so many…an authority, a man who knows, and not someone who is treated with “pity” or “charity”…That’s the biggest reason for the love of creativity I have, for a man is free when he is creating. Not just creating “funny” by way of the mask I wear, but by making others the puppets…and making them stand out front for a change…The feeling of “behind the camera” feels safe, and warm, and special, and certain…”Out front” has been very hard and trying for me…and for the first time in my life I think I can honestly admit…I hated doing it and I still do…The happiness that seemed to appear from standing “in one” was nothing more than getting a general acceptance from a lot of people who care at the moment….But “at the moment” isn’t enough for me anymore… I need all the care I can get all the time…and I only seem to be able to get that from my love, my wife… I don’t ever want to appear “indifferent” to my wife…but that appearance, too, I think is just hoping not to be a burden and an annoyance to her...I just can’t remember ever being anything but an annoyance…and when I’m told I’m not, I can’t seem to recognize that is possibly the case. I don’t like to hide and run…I want to be free to go and do as any other man does… I know I need help…but I really believe the help will come from within…as soon as I can place things in their right positions… Admitting to “hating performing” might help me adjust sooner…Admitting the love I have for writing and direction will, I’m sure, take me out of the depths of my depression…and will ultimately take me into the realm of peace and contentment. I want to talk more, I want to communicate more…I want

to say so much, and get help from her, I want so much to scream the things that tug away at my heart and my soul…And when I try, the hurt is so strong, and deep, and festered that I clam up, and the relief I want doesn’t come… Now to bury that grief…I find someone who has equally as much or more than I so that I can be the helping hand…For if I can help, then my hurts can’t be so bad…How much trouble can I have, if I’m listening to someone else’s? And for years I made that a practice…to give of myself only to forget I needed more giving than anyone… I don’t think I have always been aware of that fact…I really wanted to share and give and be charitable…but there’s that word again…charitable…I should have known better. For “charity” was the one thing that started my life wrong.. I wasn’t entitled to charity by those people when I was so very young…I was entitled to all the love and care all little lives should get…But how long did I have to wait to realize “charity” shouldn’t deal with the ones we love…They should only get the real “love” and nothing more…and give “charity” to strangers in need…Period! (And they should be picked carefully!) I’m trying to feel “God” in me and maybe with his help we can push out the torment…and place the “alive” of a being, back where it was taken from… With it all I am a very lucky man…to have found the real, right, and perfect human being to spend my years with. I want so much to do the right thing to keep her straight and happy and healthy… When she is ill, the reaction to it isn’t any different than when the spike is forced into the vampire’s heart…it’s the only emotional thing that can kill me, and that’s when she hurts…or when I’ve caused her pain…but my intentions are never to hurt her, never to do her a moment’s pain…Never to create a frown on her lovely face…Why those things happen are a complexity to us both…And I will serve myself from here on in as a student of care and concern and caution as to how she gets treated and how I allow much of my feelings to affect her… I can only answer “God” honestly, and he knows my worth and my intentions, I have no fear of his wrath…for I know he knows I’m basically good, and fine, and honorable when it comes to my love and my soul for her… I have no guilt about what I have done thru my blindness…I only have guilt for the things I might have avoided doing…If I had just put…”First things first.” I will try! And “God” knows my heart is talking, not the typewriter.”

[anarchy-n-glitter]

Nothing to Fear

Summary: Lake County, Colorado 2011

Dr. Catarina Crane arrives at Mount Massive asylum to check on a patient who happened to be working there. She’s offered a job instead.

Now her friend is missing.

(Warnings: blackmail, non consensual kissing, implied kidnapping)

PREVIOUS CHAPTER

MASTERLIST

CHAPTER 4

That night, Catarina stood outside the hotel room where J.J. was supposedly staying. She knocked a few times, but received no answer. She felt uneasy, a feeling which she had been experiencing relentlessly for the past few weeks. She hadn’t heard from him since lunch, and now he wasn’t answering the door or his phone. After a few more minutes, she decided to go home.

Her mouth felt dry, and her heart was beating loudly in her ears. She couldn’t stop worrying, she feared the worst. She wasn’t sure why though. For all she knew he was just out and his battery was dead, but something was off. For some strange reason, ever since she accepted the job at the asylum, she had become more paranoid. Every little thing had a horrible reason behind it.

She was Dr. Catarina Crane, the mistress of fear! She shouldn’t be afraid of anything! She was utterly baffled by how quickly fear had taken over her life.

As she pulled into her parking spot, she thought about how the next morning she’d get a call from J.J., and she’d see how completely ridiculous she was being. Or, at least, that’s what she hoped.

But the next day, that call never came.

She sat in the cafeteria, Michelle sitting beside her and rambling about something that Cat hadn’t been paying attention to. Cat thought she was a sweet woman, but at the moment her mind was racing. Little did she realize, Michelle noticed her worried expressions and blank eyes.

“Hey, you look like you’ve been through hell. What’s up?” She asked as her hand grazed across Cat’s. She was right, the doctor had dark circles under her eyes, and although she always did, this time they were much more prominent. Her bun was slightly messier than usual, with her brown curls cascading in individual ringlets. The doctor looked up at her, the pain clear in her eyes this time.

“I think a friend of mine’s missing.” She whispered, not entirely sure of the situation herself. Michelle, despite knowing the severity and awfulness of the situation, looked slightly relieved. Of all the things she thought might have been bothering the doctor, her friend going missing was not one of them. The older woman brought her in for a hug, but Cat didn’t return it. She, for once, was terrified. She wondered how something like this could have happened, and she only hoped he was still alive.

“Oh sweetie, I’m so sorry.” Michelle tried comforting her, but all Cat could do was pull away slightly. The red head looked remorseful, but not much more could be done. Cat had settled on filing a missing person’s report that morning, and she figured she’d wait a bit to tell Harleen and Jack. Hell, maybe she’d tell them first considering the fact that Jack was the best detective Cat’s ever encountered.

“If it’s not too impolite,” Michelle began now that her mind’s started wandering, “how long has he been missing for?”

“Since yesterday afternoon. He came to see me while I was working, I ended up bumping into him on the way to my office. The last thing he told me was where he was staying, then, nothing. I went to his hotel room but he wasn’t there. None of the staff had seen him since that morning.” Cat explained as her eyes welled up with tears. Michelle looked away and bit the inside of her lip. She felt dread wash over her. If Cat’s friend was last seen at the asylum, chances were he was still there. She suspected that someone around there had to know where he might’ve been. She looked back at Cat.

“Maybe we can check the security room? I’ll meet you there after work and we can ask to see yesterday’s footage, okay?” She suggested, to which Cat only nodded. She felt helpless; she felt like him going missing was her fault somehow.

However, Cat wasn’t there after work. Michelle waited for her, checking her watch every few minutes and looking down the hallway both ways, waiting for the brunette to round a corner. She decided to go in alone and check the footage herself. She was sure she could find him with what Cat told her. She walked into the room, and the guard immediately got up. He looked like he was ready for a fight, but when he realized she wasn’t a threat he relaxed.

“I’m just here to check on things.” Michelle explained as she moved closer to the computers. The guard simply nodded, though he still watched her closely. She began to type in the date from the day before, and all the monitors changed to the previous footage, and then Michelle started her search. After a few minutes, she sped up the tapes, only to see Dr. Crane entering Trager’s office.

“Cat what are you doing?” She whispered, almost horrified. She had her own problems with him, though she was going to take care of that soon enough. She only hoped that Dr. Crane was careful around him.

Meanwhile, Dr. Crane was still held up in her office. A few patients had made it hard for her to finish up before her shift was over, even though she found it impossible to focus on her work. Her mind kept wandering toward J.J. and Michelle, who was no doubt waiting for her by the security room.

Her hands worked quickly to organize the files in front of her. Beside the folders were her notes, spread lazily along the side of her desk, with the only difference between the two things being her cursive handwriting and the bold, stiff typewriter font. When a shadow came over the window of her office door, she barely thought about it before allowing them to come in. Naturally, she was rather annoyed when she realized that the person waiting outside her door wasn’t Michelle, but instead Richard Trager.

He walked in with a large smile on his face, with a dazed look in his eyes. If she didn’t know any better, she’d say he was high. He stopped mere inches from her desk, and she knew he was looking down at what she was so preoccupied with. She couldn’t help but wonder why he was there and what he wanted. She already told him off, and he had no reason to be on her floor, so why the hell was he there? She placed the files away in her desk drawer and began to organize her notes, placing them in a special folder that went in a completely different drawer.

“What is it now, Mr. Trager?” She asked, though this time she sounded more tired than annoyed.

“I heard the IT girl was looking for you.” He answered rather casually, and when Cat looked up he wasn’t looking at her. She was rather surprised by this, and for a moment she wondered if she was projecting the idea that he was obsessed with her onto him. Perhaps it was her who was obsessed with him.

“I know Michelle’s waiting for me, I just needed to finish some things up in here.” She explained, her voice carrying none of the hostility it normally did.

“Well what’s she looking for you for?”

“It’s nothing too important.” She muttered as she stood, making her way around the desk. He grabbed her wrist gently, yet this was still enough to make her arm break out into goosebumps as a shiver went down her spine. It wasn’t because his hands were cold (quite the contrary, his hands were rather warm and inviting, much to Cat’s dismay), she felt fear take over again. She wanted to tear herself away from him, but for once she wanted to see where this would go. She wanted to see what was so important he felt the need to stop her, felt the need to put his hands on her.

“She said you were looking for someone.” He stated clearly and confidently. His brown eyes were equally as intense as they were caring. Cat had no doubt that he was being insincere, and considering the fact that he was suspect number one with this missing persons case? She had no doubt he was trying to clear his name.

“I am.” She whispered, though this wasn’t what she intended to do. She pulled her arm away and turned away from him, half tempted to run to the door. She was done with the conversation, whether he liked it or not.

“Hey, is it that guy from yesterday by any chance?” He asked, which of course froze Cat in her tracks. She whipped around, a look of fury on her face and a finger pointed in his direction.

“I could help you find him. I saw him this morning.” He said before she could get a single word out. Her eyes narrowed and she grit her teeth, fighting the urge to spout accusations at him that she knew he’d deny.

“But,” he continued, and she balled a fist, fearing what he was going to say next, “if I help you I want you to go out to dinner with me and a friend of mine.” There it was. She wanted to yell at him; she felt as if she could spit in his face.

“Is that it? This is your trump card, huh? You use my missing friend against me?” She seethed, her voice laced with venom and pent up anger. She could punch him.

“I’m the only person who saw him today, Dr. Crane.” He spat, and her title felt foreign on his tongue. He’d only used it a handful of times, yet in this instance it felt far too formal. He loomed over her again, though this time frustration was clear on his face.

“From what I know, he had a meltdown shortly after your little meeting yesterday. He was admitted. I don’t know where he is in the building but I figured I’d ask Jeremy. It might take a while, but I can get him back for you. The least you could do is take me up on my offer.” This information was valuable, too valuable for her to file away for later while she screamed at the person she hated in this world most. From what she knew, a friend would be at dinner with them, they wouldn’t be alone, and while she found him insufferable, at least there’d be someone else there.

She looked up at him, hatred brimming in her bright, blue eyes, and whispered.

“What was that? Sorry, doc, you’re muttering.” He taunted. She bit the inside of her cheek hard, drawing a bit of blood.

“Fine.” She said finally, feeling as if she just sold her soul to the devil himself.

He stood there for a moment, staring at her with a wide smile on his face, but it didn’t take too long before his chapped lips were on hers. It was an uncomfortable kiss that lingered for a second too long. His hand rested on her cheek, pulling her closer to him despite the obvious fact that she wanted nothing to do with him. Her hands were on his chest, pushing slightly at first, only for them to grow more forceful the longer he had her trapped there. With one last shove, he gave, though his fingers trailed down to her chin, where he forced her to look up at him.

“I knew you had it in you, Cat. I’ll see you Friday night, and I’ll find that guy for you.” He winked before waltzing out of her office.

Cat stood in the middle of the room, alone, frozen with fear and disgust. Her hands immediately shot up to her face where she rubbed her lips on the backs of her arms. She felt like she was going to puke, not only from the utter repulsion she felt, but from the fear that crept up her spine and soaked her very being. She was entirely unprepared for what laid ahead of her, but she was willing to endure to get her friend back and make sure he was safe. After all, she was Catarina Crane, mistress of fear, and she was not someone to be trifled with.

[luluwquidprocrow]

i know their names, i carry their blood too

originally posted: august 13th, 2018

word count: 19,681 words

rated: teen

beatrice snicket, lemony snicket

family, angst with a happy ending, VFD, assorted original vfd characters, assorted canon characters repeatedly mentioned, one small girl going through a lot of unpleasantness, most of the time by herself, attempted kidnapping (legit vfd recruitment in action), also one small girl trying to avoid a decent amount of trauma and loss

summary: A man has come back to the city. Beatrice Baudelaire, eight years old and miles away, is trying to find him.

opening notes:

this fic relies pretty heavily on the beatrice letters, and there are a few references and one code that will make a lot more sense if you’ve read all the wrong questions and the unauthorized autobiography!

title from the crooked kind by radical face

.

Beatrice learns early on, at seven and with a bare ankle because they said they don’t require the tattoo anymore, that if she turns the doorknob slowly and lifts it up at the same time, her bedroom door doesn’t stick when it opens. At eight, she learns if she stays close to the hallway wall, avoids the places where the floor groans under her feet, especially in the spot in front of the chaperone’s room, then she can make it in absolute silence to the staircase. The stairs are trickier—most of the steps have warped over time—so she wraps her hands tight around the banister and inches along the edge until she stretches out a tentative foot and finds the smooth carpet of the ground floor rug under her socks.

At almost one in the morning, everything, every overstuffed armchair and faded green wall and well-stocked pantry, is smothered in black shadows. Beatrice doesn’t mind. She can still find her way around. She had walked around for a week with her eyes closed to prove a point a few months ago. (The point was that she could tell anyone by their footsteps, which she could. The result was that she could navigate the entirety of headquarters in the middle of the night. She knows every creak in every floorboard and what everyone’s shoes sound like now.)

A proper adult might ask her if she’d like a light on so she can see a little easier at one in the morning. A proper adult would probably think she’d be afraid of the dark, after everything that happened. Then again, a proper adult would probably not have put her in this situation to begin with. She’s not entirely sure. She’s only known a few proper adults in her life, or people older and taller than her to the point she considered them adults. She hopes she’ll know at least one more.

From the report a volunteer smuggled to her during dinner in the mashed potatoes—and from the confirmation from another volunteer during dessert, waving his spoon through the air at her—and from the further confirmation from the chaperones standing in a corner with their heads together and mumbling not very quietly at all—a man was seen. Far away, on the thirteenth floor of one of the nine dreariest buildings in the city. A man they tell stories about, a man no one seems to know for sure, a man who might be a detective, or has had that printed on an office door at one point or another. A man who hasn’t been seen in a long, long time.

“That’s him,” Beatrice had said.

“How do you know?” a volunteer had asked. “You’ve never seen him either.”

Beatrice hasn’t, but she thinks she’s allowed to make an educated guess here. A niece should know her own uncle, even by rumors. And she knows him like she knows the back of her hand, or the floorboard underneath her bed she stashes the picture and the ring under, or the books she’s read in the middle of the night when she was supposed to be asleep, the ones they tried to hide from her so she couldn’t read his name. She knows.

(One of the older chaperones told her—or muttered disparagingly in her direction after Beatrice asked the same question for a whole hour one day, because no one would give her a straight answer—that she has the analytical eyes of her mother and the stubborn streak of her namesake and the brazen attitude of her uncle. Another one told her later, a little more kindly, that she looks like her father when she reads, quiet and studious. So, she knows.)

Her backpack is a heavy weight on her back as she creeps through the downstairs rooms, her shoes gripped in one hand and a letter almost crumpled tight in the other. She’d written it after dinner, tucked away in a corner of a room that no one ever looked in (the bathroom closet, of course), the typewriter across her lap and the news still fresh in her mind. She tapped her fingers against the keys. How should she address the letter? Because she’d have to send a letter. It was only polite, after all. But calling him uncle outright might be a little too much, a little too soon. Dear, she typed, for a start. Dear—physically distant relative? Closest living relative? The person she had to find, because he could help her find the people most important to her? This had to be perfect, and Beatrice knew it would be, but she still had to think—

Dear Sir, she settled on, with a small, pleased smile.

That was when she’d heard the voices from outside in the hall, filtering through the bathroom door.

“This can’t be good news,” said a chaperone Beatrice never liked. “He’s a wanted criminal, isn’t he? And I heard he was responsible for that other fire a few years ago, too. What if he comes here?”

“How can we trust someone like him?” said another one that Beatrice had almost respected until that moment.

“It’s probably not even him,” said a third voice. “There’s been too many people with his initials showing up over the years. With any luck, he’s dead and gone.”

Beatrice frowned, mostly in anger, because that was such an awful, rude thing to say about someone. She knew it was him. There was no way it couldn’t be. But the chaperones had a point about the initials, and it made her think of something else. In case the letter went astray, because the mail could be so unreliable, especially so far from the city, she should preface it with something, shouldn’t she?

I have no way of knowing if this letter will reach you, as the distance between us is so very far and so very troublesome, she’d written, proud at how professional she sounded. And even if this letter does reach you, I am not sure it will reach the right person. Perhaps you are not who I think you are.

But she’d learned one important thing here, and that was that you had to be certain, because you might be wrong. So at the end of the day, it was merely a pretense, a formality. There was nothing she didn’t know for sure, because she was certain.

My name is Beatrice Baudelaire, she typed, with a fierce determination and her head held high. I am searching for my family. Then she’d known that she was going to leave.

Beatrice squints up at the grandfather clock in the corner of the main room, trying to see the time through the shadows. If she cuts it too close she’ll run into the chaperones doing their middle-of-the-night check on the neophytes. She has to be out of the building before it comes to that. The ground floor of headquarters is silent as a grave right now, as dark as one too, and she steps close to the couch where the floor won’t talk back to her as she makes her way to the heavy ivory front door, washed grey in the dark.

She knows from experience—from carefully watching and listening—that the door is locked (silver, outdated, the kind from the old hardware manuals Beatrice has extensively studied in the dead of night) from the outside, the volunteer who locks it then running up the fire escape and back inside through an upstairs window. But the quickest way out is always the easiest way in. She puts on her shoes and takes off her backpack, unzips the latter as slow as she can, and feels around for the thin red ribbon.

She shifts her hair, shoulder-length and blonde with a curl at the very end, away from her face, and ties it back securely with the ribbon.

An older volunteer had given her a lock pick the previous week after Beatrice helped her solve a word game—there’s no way she would’ve been able to get one otherwise. The chaperones almost always seem to know when someone’s doing something they shouldn’t, considering how much else they miss. Beatrice takes it out and gets to work, moving quickly and quietly, listening for the barely audible tick when one of the tumblers releases. One of the chaperones laughs upstairs, a disembodied thing in the darkness, and Beatrice grips the tools harder so she doesn’t jump and drop them.

The lock clicks sharply, the door easing open with a heavy creak. Beatrice freezes in place, straining her ears, her breath still in her throat. She’s sure someone had to hear that.

Something creaks upstairs.

The floorboard outside the chaperone’s door.

Beatrice snatches up her bag, squeezes herself through the gap and outside, and pulls the door shut behind her. She runs down the stone steps two at a time and doesn’t look back.

Ten blocks away, when she’s sure no one is looking, Beatrice drops the folded letter into a public mailbox.

The only train out of town leaves at five in the morning. Beatrice gets to the station with plenty of time to spare, and easily memorizes the route she’ll have to take to get to the city. It’s a long one, so she sits down on one of the benches and counts out her change. She digs the ring out of her bag, the heirloom from the island Sunny had given her that Beatrice had hid from the chaperones, and tries it on different fingers until it stays and doesn’t slide. Then she waits, tracing the low ceiling beams with her eyes, swinging her legs back and forth.

She knows just what he’ll be like. Not too tall, keeps to himself, intelligent. Sensible, maybe a little tentative, a little worried. His books made it sound like he’d been through a lot, after all. But she’s not too concerned about that. He’ll talk to her, because she’s his niece, and she’s read everything he’s written, and they have a good deal in common. They both like big words, long books, and could take or leave the sea.

She has one picture of him, of the side of his back and a corner of his face and one hand, or the side of the back and the corner of a face and the one hand of a man Violet and Klaus didn’t know, but a man Beatrice knew couldn’t be anyone else. There were three other people in the photograph—the uncle she’ll never meet, and the Baudelaire parents.

Beatrice hadn’t meant to take the photograph. It was their photograph, Violet and Klaus and Sunny’s, the last thing they had of their parents. But she thought it might be the only glimpse she’d get of her uncle, especially when she’d only known about Jacques, so she would sneak it out of Klaus’s commonplace book when he wasn’t looking. She’d wonder who the other man was, since that was before she knew. And she’d meant to put it back, but—but there hadn’t been time.

Violet and Klaus told her her mother had blue eyes, and so did Jacques, and she has them too, so she knows she’ll see the same shade of blue in his eyes, another link between the two of them. Excitement flutters around inside of her like a million wonderful butterflies, and she can’t help but smile. Not only is she going to find the family she lost, she’s going to find the family she didn’t even know she still had until a few months before. Beatrice can’t think of anything luckier.

There’s not too many people on the train when it comes into the station, so Beatrice picks a windowseat all to herself, pressing herself close so she can see everything passing by. She doesn’t want to miss a single thing. She swings her legs again, heels kicking the seat, and waits for the train to start moving.

“Aren’t you a little young to be traveling alone?” the woman across the aisle asks. She lowers yesterday’s evening edition newspaper and gives Beatrice a pointed stare behind her thick-framed glasses.

“No,” Beatrice says.

“You seem a little young,” the woman continues.

“I’m short for my age,” Beatrice says.

The woman gives her another look, specifically at her feet, and then looks back up at Beatrice with a raised eyebrow. She ruffles her newspaper imperiously and disappears behind it again.

Beatrice swallows, her shoulders pulling in. She makes a point to stop swinging her legs and sits up straighter. She keeps at it, even when the woman gets off at the next station and she’s by herself on the train.

She doesn’t remember falling asleep, but she jolts awake at a flash of light across her face. It flickers jagged on her hands, lighting up the seat beneath her, bright and blinding white. She looks around frantically, expecting to see rain and bending wood, to hear the roar of crashing waves, before she remembers she’s still on the train. There’s no lightning on a train. It’s just the sun streaming in from the window. She watches with wide eyes as it creates patterns on her arms and her dress, then tears her gaze away and stares hard at the faraway houses outside the window instead, clutching her bag in her lap. Beatrice thinks of big words (pietrisycamollaviadelrechiotemexity surely counts as a word, and she spends ten minutes testing out pronunciations), long books (Anna Karenina is long, and she can probably still read it even though she already knows the central theme), and anything but the sea, until her hands loosen and her shoulders drop and the sun is high enough that she can’t see it.

Beatrice had first found his name buried in old reports, in thirteen files jammed into the back of a drawer, down in the basement at headquarters when someone had asked her to find a flashlight. She found a bat instead, clinging to the rafters, and it blinked at her with big, black eyes. Beatrice blinked back, because she knew all about all kinds of animals, especially the ones the organization trained, and she didn’t mind bats. Then it fluttered down on top of an old filing cabinet in the corner.

Beatrice wandered over and picked out faded letters that spelled Baudelaire on the front. Eager, because no one at headquarters would talk to her about Violet or Klaus or Sunny, or answer her questions about where they might be, she yanked it open and found files and files with a distinct cursive signature ending each one—Lemony Snicket. And her stomach had twisted up tight, because she could hear Klaus like he was standing right behind her, telling her the name Kit Snicket.

Kit Snicket, Beatrice had echoed.

That’s right, Klaus had said, smiling. She was your mother.

Beatrice knew all about her mother. Violet and Klaus and Sunny had told her her mother was a good person, a volunteer, someone who had helped them, and they had helped her. That was how Beatrice was born. And she knew all about Jacques, because they’d said the same thing about him. But they’d never mentioned a Lemony. She knew better than to think he was her father, because she knew her father’s name, too. Dewey Denouement. They’d said his name only once, and she’d repeated it over and over again to herself. Beatrice didn’t know who this was.

She read through them all in the dead of night so no one would bother her, because Beatrice knew they were watching her, closer than they watched the other neophytes. She tried to find the four volumes she’d found hints at in other files, although she never managed to pin them down. But the thirteen files told her enough. They confirmed that Violet and Klaus and Sunny were still out there somewhere, just like she thought. They confirmed their stories, although with other details they hadn’t said or had relayed differently—but Beatrice had never doubted what they’d told her to begin with.

And they confirmed that Lemony Snicket was her uncle, and he was alive.

All of Beatrice’s hopes became real, became fact. There was someone else out there, someone who could help her. Someone who was family. Someone who could help her find Violet and Klaus and Sunny. Someone who knew the whole story too.

So then she just had to wait. She had to wait, and learn, and sit through someone telling her how to make a meringue when she knew full well how to make a meringue, and how to pick a lock and how to define a word and the right way to escape a burning building. She had to keep waiting until the right moment came and she could leave and try to find him, try to find them all. And Beatrice would know when it was. She was Beatrice Baudelaire, after all. She knew everything now.

Beatrice spends three weeks switching trains, eating greasy sandwiches from the vendors hanging around in the old, dingy train stations. Sunny wouldn’t like any of the sandwiches at all, but Beatrice has to make do with what she can. No one talks to her, so she doesn’t get a chance to try out any of the other things she’d thought to say after she spoke to that woman. I’m visiting a relative. I’m in a special program. Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to talk to strangers? She’s a little bummed about that, because she practiced the perfect eyebrow raise in the hand mirror she took from one of the chaperones, but it’s really for the best. She doesn’t need to be sidetracked.

Instead, she listens to how the trains sound smoother and sleeker closer to the city, watches how the stations get more impressive. She takes pamphlets from each station until she has a neat collection detailing train mechanics, local restaurants, and sometimes, if she finds one, the smallest books she’s ever seen. Beatrice sits in the hard station seats and flips through them while she waits for her train to come in. Mostly they’re books she’s read before, but she thinks they’re cute, being so tiny. She’ll show them to Violet and Klaus and Sunny, and her uncle, too. She knows they’ll enjoy them.

A voice mumbles indistinct static over the loudspeaker. Beatrice finishes her sandwich, puts the latest brochure in her bag, and gets on the next train.

The train station in the city is enormous, bigger than headquarters. It certainly looks as old as headquarters, but a little more distinguished, with a solid white floor and an endlessly high ceiling. Beatrice would be able to appreciate it more, she thinks, if there wasn’t so many people, all bustling past in a flurry of suitcases and elbows. None of them spare her a second glance, not even when she climbs up on top of one of the curved benches for a better view of the entire station.

Whenever Violet couldn’t figure out how to fix an invention, or Klaus couldn’t figure out the meaning of a sentence, or Sunny couldn’t figure out how to change a recipe, they would take it apart and look at each individual component before continuing. The same principle works for a city, Beatrice figures. A city is just a collection of streets, one right after the other, and all of them go somewhere. It’s not too hard to find out where, especially when you have the right map.

She finally spots the map display, drops back onto the floor, and goes and grabs every single map available. She squeezes her way through the crowd mobbing around the exit and emerges out on the city street into a sudden deluge of bright lights and noise. Beatrice blinks until it all evens out, all the traffic lights and towering buildings and the people, hundreds and hundreds more of them. She swallows, presses herself against the outside wall, and takes a moment to watch everything.

It’s strange. The ocean was vast, and they rarely ran into anyone out there, and headquarters, tucked away in a small town miles from the sea, had only about twenty neophytes and a handful of teachers and chaperones. But the city is full of jostling bodies and constant sound, like the whole world rushing around her, a storm that doesn’t stop. Beatrice thinks she might be scared, if she wasn’t so systematic about it. You can’t be scared if you know everything. It’s just different, is all it is. She reminds herself to breathe and thinks it’s just different.

Beatrice spreads the maps out in the park across the street, holding the edges down with rocks so they don’t blow away when the breeze kicks up. Everything is marked on the maps, every street and building and corner store, and even the best places to see certain birds. One map includes Nine Dreary Buildings to Avoid on Your Lunch Break, which is absurdly specific but exactly what she needs, and Beatrice hunts them all down with a careful eye and a black pen. All nine buildings are within a few blocks of each other, clustered in the center of the city. She’ll have to go through all of them, just to be sure. Klaus taught her it was good to be thorough. She puts the rest of the maps away and starts looking.

The first two buildings are too short to have a thirteenth floor. The third building looks like it was condemned years ago and no one bothered to do anything with it. The fourth building has so many floors that Beatrice loses track when she stands on the sidewalk and tilts her head back to try and count, and she looks through the directory inside the doors but doesn’t see any mention of her uncle’s name (or a pseudonym, or an anagram, or even just a suspicious blank space).

The walk to the fifth building takes the longest, because Beatrice has to find a path around the construction being done on seventh street, and takes ten minutes to wrestle with the map and figure out which street she’s on when she winds up in a dark alley with a lot of cigarette butts and one very noisy pigeon who tries to steal her map. The sixth building has the suspicious blank space on the directory, but it’s on the fifteenth floor. The seventh and eighth buildings, when she manages to find them, were mislabeled and wind up being two different diners, one of them even across from a completely different train station. Beatrice admits that they’re still pretty dreary-looking and uncomfortable, especially the latter one. She certainly wouldn’t want to eat at a place called The Hemlock Tearoom and Stationary Shop. That’s just tempting fate a little too much.

The ninth building proclaims itself to be the Rhetorical Building in faded but still distinct black print on an otherwise grey building, with a tattered brown awning over the glass double doors. It’s definitely tall enough to have thirteen floors—Beatrice counts twenty rows of windows going up the side. She bites her lip and scans the directory. Her heart leaps when she spots the little card for an office on the thirteenth floor. The name scribbled out, but whoever did it used a faded black pen and didn’t do that good a job, so she can still see the very clear L at the beginning and the S somewhere in the middle. She bites her lip around a smile.

This is it. This is her uncle’s office.

Beatrice pushes the doors open and takes a cursory glance around the lobby, and finds the inside lives up to the dreary reputation too. She wouldn’t have put so much sagging grey furniture and scuffed flooring and wilted potted plants in an office building. She ducks down as she hurries past the front desk so the bored receptionist doesn’t see her, vaguely wondering what it is about the building that her uncle likes so much to have an office here, and heads up the staircase. She can ask him when she sees him. She can ask him everything when she sees him, although everything is just one single question, but it’s everything to her.

The thirteen floors pass in what feels like a matter of moments, and Beatrice breaks into a run when she gets closer to his office, bursting through the doors onto the thirteenth floor. She darts from door to door, looking for the right number, wood creaking under her shoes, and almost barrels right into a panel of old, frosted glass on a door halfway down the hall. The only writing on it says DETECTIVE in peeling letters, which is exactly what she expected. Beatrice grins and knocks a few times, bouncing on the balls of her feet. When there’s no answer right away, she tries the doorknob.

The door is unlocked.

Beatrice tries with everything she has to contain her excitement, but it still comes through in her shaking hands as she turns the doorknob. “Hello?” she calls.

She comes face to face with a cloud of dust. Beatrice coughs into her fist, waving her other hand around to disperse it, and looks up to find a cluttered, but empty office.

Beatrice frowns and walks inside. The blinds are shut tight over the windows, so she eases them open carefully, letting in just enough light to see, and the office still doesn’t have anyone else in it. She checks under the desk, and out on the fire escape, and even under the papers on the walls, but there’s no reasonably tall man with her eyes waiting for her. She huffs out a sigh, her shoulders falling, but then the papers on the wall catch her attention. She looks closer.

They aren’t just papers—there are photographs mixed in, pictures of people she’s never seen before, and pictures of places, cities, hotel rooms, at least one rental car office, an all-you-can-eat buffet, and two separate theaters, and newspaper articles and pages ripped from books, all framing a humongous map of the city and surrounding areas, bigger than any she picked up at the train station. The papers are connected by a thin red string, wound around tacks and marking pins and what looks like an old bottle cap for a soda Beatrice doesn’t think sounds very pleasing. The middle of the map has more recent ones, polaroids dated a few months back of steep, rolling hills, a note paperclipped to one, neat typewriter type proclaiming it could be possible, underlined in a smooth, even blue pen. There’s a path marked beside them, curving through a wide and unlabeled space in the map.

That must be it, she thinks, nodding to herself. He’s not here, and she could be more upset about that, but she can’t be when now she knows exactly where he went. He’s pretty obvious for a detective, which makes her smile around a laugh.

She turns to the desk, which leans a little to one side, papers and a typewriter balanced precariously. A strangely-shaped paperweight sits on top of a stack of papers, and Beatrice mentally runs through every single animal she knows but can’t find a match. It looks like a snake or a worm or an eel, only with too many teeth.

Beatrice clambers up into the chair behind the desk, settles herself, and looks at the typewriter. It’s an old model, but well-cared-for, with shiny keys and a brand new ribbon, almost like it was waiting for her. Beatrice rolls in a sheet of paper, and then runs her fingers over the keys. She’s sure he won’t mind.

Dear Sir, she types. I am writing this on the typewriter in your small, dusty office, on the thirteenth floor of one of the nine dreariest buildings of the city.

I am leaving this city, only hours after seeing it for the first time, to follow your path of yarn and pins. I am heading for the hills…

When she leaves his office and starts hunting through the bus schedules for an idea of how she’s going to get to the hills, she realizes, with an exhilarated jump of her stomach, that it’s now March 1st. She’s been nine years old for a whole day.

On her last birthday on the boat, which Violet had radically modified before leaving the island and on the journey after, Sunny made her a cake. There were no candles, because none of them ever used a candle, at least when Beatrice was looking, and Violet and Klaus read her favorite story, and everyone got icing all over their hands and faces. Beatrice can just barely hear the way they all laughed. There’s a thin fog over the rest of the memory, one that strangles the excitement out of her. She can’t quite recall what the weather was like, or what she wore, or what flavor the cake was or even what the story was and especially how close it was to the day where—

Beatrice clears her throat and looks back at the bus schedules. She doesn’t think I have to find them. She thinks I will find them.

Beatrice takes one look at the sandwich counter in the bus station and resolutely decides she’s too hungry for another sad, uncomfortably greasy sandwich, and she needs a much better option. She takes out her map and backtracks to the Rhetorical Building, because the closest diner is on that street, right across from the office, between a tailor shop and a building shaped almost like a short, squat pen. For a city that on the whole is a lot more dreary than she thought it’d be, the diner looks bright and welcoming, with soft lights in the windows and cheerful blue curtains. Klaus taught her to be aware of her surroundings, so she makes sure she looks at everything when she steps inside.

The diner isn’t very big, but it’s clean and well-kept, with tan booths against either wall, a line of square tables right down the middle, and a counter blocking most of the kitchen from view. The pictures on the walls are all framed and organized in neat rows, and Beatrice’s gaze moves quickly from the few pictures of an ocean and a group of people in front of a boat to the other ones of cityscapes, and then to a completely blank piece of paper with #47! scribbled in the lower right corner. She looks to the other side of the room and finds a tightly-packed bookshelf near the counter. She thinks Klaus would definitely approve.

She climbs up on top of one of the counter stools and smooths out her skirt, and then sees a tall man standing behind the counter, flipping an oozing sandwich on the grill. He looks at her with wide eyes, surprise clear on his face, but then he smiles, so genuine she could’ve just imagined the shock. Beatrice thinks he looks a little like a movie star, with that thick red hair and easy stance.

“What can I get you?” he asks.

“I don’t have much money,” Beatrice says, because Violet always taught her to be honest. Sunny taught her to lie, but she thinks Sunny would like this man too, if she saw that sandwich.

“Not a problem,” the man says. “It’s on the house. What do you like?”

“What are you making?”

“The best grilled cheese you’ll ever eat in your life,” he says, and he slides the sandwich onto a plate and sets it in front of her. Then he puts a napkin and a glass of water beside it and smiles expectantly.

It is the best grilled cheese she’s ever eaten in her life. It puts the millions of sandwiches she ate at all those train stations to shame. When the cheese pulls when she takes a bite out of it, she knows that Sunny would love this sandwich. It seems almost unfair to get it for free. “Are you sure it’s okay?” she asks through a mouthful of toasted bread and mozzarella and a hint of pepper.

“Tell you what,” he says, wiping his hands on his apron. “Have you read anything good lately? My friends and I are always looking for book recommendations.”

She wishes she could get everything in life with a good book recommendation, because that sounds like a great system. The last book she’d read had been back at headquarters, so that she would understand a certain code, but Beatrice liked it a lot anyway. She was told it was a classic too, and she knows lots of adults like it when you read classics. “I read a book about a girl who goes out to dinner with her family,” she says, “and cracks an egg on her forehead. Not at the dinner, in a different chapter.”

He laughs. “A friend of mine liked that one when we were kids,” he says. “She went around trying to crack an egg on her forehead too, made me go through a whole carton of eggs.”

“Did she do it?”

“She sure did. Got egg all over my aunt’s diner in the process, but she looked me right in the eye and told me it was worth it.”

Someone else sits down farther down the counter, and the man walks off in their direction, leaving Beatrice alone with the grilled cheese. But he comes back, a curious look in his eyes. “So what brings you to the city?” he asks.

She thinks this is the question where she shouldn’t be entirely honest. Beatrice sits up straighter in her seat, trying to pull the sandwich apart into smaller, more dignified bites, the cheese oozing. “I’m visiting a relative,” she says.

“A relative?”

“A relative,” she says. “That’s all.”

“Do you need any help?” he asks. “I know this city like the back of my hand, and I’d be happy to—”

“No,” Beatrice says. “I know what I’m doing.” She finishes the last of the grilled cheese and wipes her hand on the napkin. “Thank you very much.”

He frowns a little, like he wants to ask her something else, but then he settles on another smile. “If you’re ever in the area,” he says, “or you need anything, even just some good food, stop on by.”

“What’s your name?” she asks.

“Jake Hix.”

“Beatrice Baudelaire.”

The only thing about the journey into the hills that Beatrice didn’t account for is all the open space.

The bus driver only takes her as far as a convenience store on the outskirts of the city, so Beatrice walks the nearby dirt roads out into the hills, stopping at the first sight of open, empty land. She grips the straps of her backpack, standing at the edge of the misty and faded earth spread out all around her, reaching on and on and on, sloping down at dangerous angles before disappearing completely in a thick haze. She swallows hard and stares even harder.

Beatrice focuses on the color. Even in late winter, it’s green, pale but distinctly green. They’re hills, not the ocean, with a horizon blurred white with fog and clouds. Nothing is a dangerous, roiling blue-black-grey, and the tall crests of the hills don’t move like waves, and nothing rushes through her ears like a scream, except the wind, which is much less thunderous than water. After all that, it’s almost silent, in the hills. It’s silent, and it’s not all that open, is it? There’s at least two scraggly little trees that she can see. Landmarks. Points of reference. She is not alone in the hills.

He’s out there, somewhere.

She starts walking.

Without the train schedules for something to keep track of, Beatrice isn’t sure how long she spends in the hills. Time passes in cool nights and cloudy days and an awful lot of grass with actually very few trees before, in a low valley in the hills, she reaches an encampment of about thirty shepherds. Beyond them, where she expects sheep, is an impressive collection of yaks. They might be the only people she runs into out here, and she’s starting to get worried, not so much that she won’t find her uncle, but that she’ll overlook him completely in all this space. The path on the map in his office was pretty vague. She’s going to have to ask them.

Beatrice approaches one of the shepherds. He looks like he’s the oldest, his wild and white beard tangling in the wind. He holds a thick, dark bell in one hand, his elbow propped against a sturdy walking stick, and watches Beatrice with startlingly cold eyes as she approaches.

“Excuse me,” Beatrice says. “Have you seen a man around here?”

“Depends,” he says. His voice rumbles like deep thunder, and it makes her flinch. “What’s he look like?”

Beatrice thinks about it. “Average height, not bald, fully clothed, answers to the initials L.S.”

“Oh,” the shepherd says, straightening up. “Him! He was here for a while. A strange one. Kept to himself most of the time. Stayed in that cave about two miles away.” He rings the bell, and the sound clunks and thunks against her ears. The yaks in the distance raise their heads and gaze in his direction. The shepherd, meanwhile, looks back at her with a raised eyebrow. “Seemed like he might have been waiting for someone, I thought.”

She feels a twinge of guilt and shifts her weight from one foot to the other. She should’ve gotten here faster. “Can you take me there, please?” she asks.

“I don’t do anything for free,” he says shortly.

“I don’t have much,” she says, frowning, and it’s more true now than it was when she told it to Jake Hix. Between all the train fare and the subpar sandwiches and then the cost of the bus, Beatrice figures she has maybe seventy-five cents.

The shepherd bends down, sweeping a critical eye over Beatrice. When his gaze finds her hands, he points at the little band around one of her fingers. “That,” he says. “That would do.”

“Oh,” Beatrice says. She looks down at the ring, dull in the lack of sunlight. She’s seen it sparkle beautiful gold and red, the carving of the initial in the stone glittering brighter than anything. Something lost, something that was found again after so much time. Beatrice likes wearing it, even though she doesn’t always think about it.

But it’s not like it is a family heirloom, for her mother or her father or for Violet and Klaus and Sunny. It belonged to the Duchess of Winnipeg, and although it found its way through her family anyway, it’s certainly never really been Beatrice’s. She just thought that she’d be able to give it back to the Duchess at some point.

She slides the ring off her finger and holds it up for the shepherd. His beard parts in a smile, revealing awfully shiny teeth, and he snatches the ring up and drops it into his pocket. The yaks are closer now, and he winds his hand into the rope around one of their necks and drags it over. He climbs up onto its back and stares at Beatrice. “It’s a ride. You’d best get on.”

Beatrice pulls herself up behind him. She tracks the sun this time, over the huge shoulders of the shepherd, watching it dip through the sky as they ride.

“Did he say anything?” Beatrice asks at one point. “The man.”

The shepherd scratches at his chin. His elbow swings back as he does, jostling into Beatrice’s ear. “Something about a root beer float,” he says. “I’m in the mood for a root beer float.”

“That seems a lot to ask, in the hills,” Beatrice says, tilting her head to the side to avoid the elbow. “The closest diner is back in the city.”

“No, that’s what he said. I’m in the mood for a root beer float.”

“Oh,” Beatrice says, feeling her face flush.

“Well, there you go,” the shepherd says, some time later when he stops in front of a low but deep cave jutting awkwardly out of the earth. Beatrice thanks him, slides down off the yak, and makes her way inside.

There’s nothing much in the cave—just a few sheets of loose, stained paper, and a whole lot of bats, almost indistinguishable from the shadows. They squeak when Beatrice gets too close, so she leaves them alone in the back and focuses on the rest of the cave. A few sheets of peeling and faded flower-patterned wallpaper cling to the curved walls. A collection of wires sits near the mouth of the cave, and a lone light bulb rolls by her feet. The wind collects in the hollow at the center, making it drafty and uncomfortable. She pulls her sweater tighter around her.

From the shepherd’s words, she knew he wouldn’t be here, but it still stings to get all the way here and then find out he’s gone again, to find out she just missed him. But that just means she has to try again, try harder. That’s not a problem for her. She’s been through worse.

Beatrice rifles through the sheets of paper left behind. She picks out the least ruined one, the only mark a K by a ripped corner. She pulls out a pen and sits down.

Dear Sir, she writes. I have found you at last—but you’re not here.

She finishes her letter and folds it neatly. She didn’t bring a single envelope, and she looks around in her bag to find something else she could possibly trade for the shepherd to send her letter. She doesn’t think he’ll care for a sweater or her lock pick, and she needs them. Beatrice walks out of the cave, staring into the direction of the city. She can’t quite see it, but she’s sure it’s there, just as sure as she is that she’ll find her uncle when she gets back.

She starts to figure out how she’ll get back, because she can worry about the letter when she finds the shepherd. How long it’ll take to get out of the hills, where to catch the right bus, how she can find the diner—when one of the younger shepherds, not much older than her, trots over, tugging a yak behind him.

“The city’s a long ways away,” he says when he stops beside her, panting a little. “I think your best bet is this yak here.”

Beatrice stares at him, and then the yak. The yak yawns at her.

“He’s pretty comfortable,” the boy says, smiling. “And he’s got a good sense of direction. The best yak this side of the hills, I guarantee it.”

“What about the other side?” Beatrice asks.

The boy laughs. “No comparison at all.”

“Don’t you need him?”

He shakes his head. “I can make do without him for a while.”

He tells her he’s heard about a shortcut back to the city, through a mountain rather than the miles of rolling hills. Beatrice has never been on a mountain. When he points it out to her, an enormous shimmering outline through the fog, it’s the most amazing thing she’s ever seen in her life. It looks nothing like the ocean.

The mountain is dangerously uneven, but Beatrice has never been so high up before, and that and the yak make up for all the sudden dips and drops in the path. The yak seems to know where he’s going—she never has to keep him on track or nudge him along, and he always stops around sunset and lets her curl up against his side. Sometimes he stops in front of the occasional bush, and Beatrice makes sure she can identify the berries on them with what Klaus wrote in his commonplace book, and the two of them snack to keep up their strength, Beatrice making sure not to stain the edges of the notebook with juice fingerprints.

Sometimes she flips back, back to when Klaus was a few years older than her, to the page where she’d taken the photograph. She’d replaced when both the objects became hers. She likes reading what he wrote, the little bits of her family’s story, like he’s right beside her on this mountain even as he was trying to get through the Mortmain Mountains. Recipes Sunny put together, things Violet said, pieces of codes and books and memories.

The notebook was the last thing he gave her. He’d thrown it at her during the shipwreck, and she can still see that, plain as anything. The black clouds and the thunder and the lightning, the wood splintering up in a roaring crash under her feet, everything slick with the endless rain and the thick, dark waves, including the edge of wood keeping Beatrice afloat. Then Violet’s voice, shouting we’ll find you, I promise—

Beatrice pages through the notebook, staring at Klaus’s immaculate handwriting. “How much more mountain do you think there is?” she asks the yak.

There’s a lot more mountain, days and days of mountain. Beatrice promises herself that if she ever has to do this again, she’s bringing a calendar.

When she gets to the bottom of the mountain, the ground covered in rocks and patchy grass, still a ways out from the city but definitely closer to it than the spot where the bus had dropped her off, Beatrice isn’t sure what to do with the yak. She climbs down, dusts him off, readjusts her bag, and then watches him. The yak watches her. Then he yawns, turns, and starts meandering back in the direction of the hills. She figures he probably wouldn’t be the best yak this side of the hills if he didn’t know how to get back to the shepherd.

“Bye,” Beatrice calls.

The city is uncomfortably close when she gets back, full of a heavy, simmering summer heat. She wipes the sweat off her face and thinks she could also go for a root beer float right about now. But there's probably a lot more diners than dreary office buildings in the city, ones that will be harder to eliminate than the offices were. She's not even sure if he'll be in his office now either, after he wasn’t where he was supposed to be in the hills. The thought sits in a knot inside her, twisting up the more she thinks. She of all people should know where he is. What sort of person is she, if she doesn't know the whereabouts of her own uncle?

Beatrice winds her way carefully through the masses of people still crowding the sidewalks, as if they never left, like the same people from months ago have been standing around here all this time. She could pull out the maps, but she doesn’t see a place to put them down and look at them again. Beatrice finally comes to a halt in front of a square, stocky building, old pillars framing the tinted glass doors.

Violet and Klaus and Sunny told her about libraries. She doesn’t remember the one on the island, or the island itself, although Violet told her both were massive, and they didn’t have much of one on the boat, just a collection of books Klaus brought from the island. But Beatrice knows that a library is a sanctuary, a calm place, where someone is supposed to feel safe. She knows that her uncle considers a library all of those things too. And even if she doesn’t find anything, at least it’s probably air conditioned.

Beatrice heads inside.

The first thing she notices is that everything is so quiet. But not an unnaturally still quiet, more of a gentle, unobtrusive one, interrupted only by the occasional shuffle of paper. Beatrice understands with a rush what Violet and Klaus and Sunny meant. It’s like stepping into a whole world, one she could spend hours and hours in just reading, among the bookshelves and pale cream carpet and broad windows letting in a sunlight so serene that for the first time it doesn’t make her hands clench in fear.

Beatrice takes her time going through the library, taking it all in. She makes her way through aisle after aisle, down a staircase to the lower level. A short wall separates the little lobby near the staircase and the rest of the floor, and she follows it around where it curves to look at the room.

Her breath catches in her throat. Ten feet ahead, there’s a man standing in front of a glass case, his hands deep in the pockets of his suit jacket. Beatrice walks a little closer, staying against the wall, until she can see the plaque near the case, describing something about poetry and actresses and dedication to the theater. She can see herself in the glass, a distorted short reflection in a pale pink dress, and she smooths her hair on instinct. Beatrice looks up, and up, until she can see the sharp reflection of the man, blue eyes and dark hair and a suitcase beside him that has seen better days but still clearly proclaims the owner to have the initials L.S.

Beatrice ducks back behind the wall in her surprise, her hands gripping each other. What are you doing, she thinks frantically, her heart pounding and pounding. There he is!

But when she pushes herself away from the wall, her mouth open to call out to him, he’s gone. Her heart drops, and she rushes towards the glass case. She skims through the poem for a hint about anything, as he seemed to look at it with a great deal of concentration, but she stops at the line a word which here means “person who trains bats” because who writes a second verse with such an uneven rhythm, and there’s no way baticeer is really a word—then she hears quick footsteps thudding in the hall behind her. She turns and runs towards then.

Beatrice follows him outside, barely keeping up. He runs incredibly fast for a man of his age in this heat, whatever that age is. Beatrice knows it’s certainly much older than she is. She sees the edge of his hat, the corner of his suitcase winging around another street, and she keeps running. It’s him. She’s going to catch up with him.

She follows him to a nearby park, where she finds him yards away of her, almost collapsed on a bench, leaning to the side to examine something on the seat. Beatrice slows up. And then he’s on his feet again, strolling towards the lake. There’s something forced about his casual stance, and she picks up her pace, thinking somewhere inside that this is ridiculous. They’re both looking for each other, they’re both here, and she should just—

He bolts off, this time leaping with an unexpected agility over a patch of shrubbery, which Beatrice dodges around easily when she reaches it, tearing out of the park after him. Moments later, she sees him throwing himself into a bus one street up, disappearing completely when the doors snap shut.

Beatrice lets out a disbelieving groan, staring at the retreating bus. She can’t believe how difficult he’s being, or for what reason, or why he treats the city like a place he’s desperately trying to escape. For as much as he runs, he sure still seems to wind up back here eventually.

But now that she’s seen him, she knows exactly where he’s going. Where else would he go in the city, on this particular bus route? Beatrice has looked over all the maps, and she remembers exactly where to go. She wipes the sweat off her face, takes a breath, and keeps on going.

He still makes it to his office building before her. When Beatrice stops at the corner, clutching the nearby lamppost and gasping, the bus is already far down the street and he’s nowhere in sight. She swallows and heads for the Rhetorical Building.

The lobby is dreadfully cold and still dreadfully dreary, but she barely notices it this time. Beatrice bypasses everything and sprints right for the staircase, not even trying to hide.

It could be because she’s already run so much, but taking the staircase this time seems to take an eternity. She’s so sure she can hear him, wheezing a floor above her, and that pushes her forward when her lungs burn and her legs ache. She makes it to the thirteenth floor, flings the door open, and barrels down the hallway to his office door.

Beatrice tries the doorknob first, but it doesn’t yield. She pounds on the door for five whole minutes, and it rattles and shakes but no one opens it.

One of the doors further down the hallway opens, and a man sticks his head out. “Something I can help you with?” he calls. “I’ve never seen anyone open that door at all. Can I—”

“Thank you,” Beatrice says quickly, hoping she sounds more firm than out of breath, “but I have this under control.” The man shrugs and closes the door. Beatrice continues knocking and knocking.

Maybe you were wrong, a voice in her head whispers. Maybe it’s not him.

I’m not wrong, Beatrice tells herself. I’m not wrong.

She huffs out a sigh, drops her backpack on the floor, and pulls out the lock pick. She doesn’t want to pick the lock, but this is it, she’s not waiting anymore.

The lock springs easily. Beatrice jams the picks back into her bag, grips the doorknob, and hauls the door open.

The office is empty.

Beatrice gapes around at the office, almost incredulous. It looks different than it did before—the papers, notes, and photographs on the wall are new, linked by a thick blue yarn now. The typewriter has a sheet of paper sticking out of it, like someone was just there (and he was, he was just there, she knows he was). There’s a framed picture on the wall of a lighthouse. The curtains are different, stark white and clean and fluttering in the breeze because the window is open.

She runs over to the window, climbing out onto the fire escape. It’s distressingly empty as well. When she grips the railing and leans over to look down the rest of the stairs and into the alley below, she doesn’t find anything at all. She stands there a moment longer, just in case he reappears, her whole body coiled with anticipation. Then another moment, and another, and another after that, until the moments stretch into minutes and her expectations finally die like a doused fire. She pushes herself away from the railing, slides back inside, and slams the window shut. Beatrice glowers at it, then eases it back open. He’ll have to be able to get back in later.

She takes a look at the wall. Before, it was easy to tell where he was going. Now, Beatrice can’t figure out what any of the notes mean. They’re all scattered pictures of beach sand and close-ups of waves and an unsettling collection of curling, spindly things that look like dried seaweed. She catches a few glimpses of his handwriting, mostly just question marks, and some typewritten notes signed M. No matter how hard she tries, her eyes keep finding their way back to the pictures of the ocean, pearly blue and peppered with stark-white foam. Her jaw clenches, and she turns away sharply.

The desk has more papers on it than it did before, but no paperweight. Beatrice flips through them, but she doesn’t find her letters, or letters from anyone else. What she does find are lists of places she’s never heard of, most of them crossed off. The paper in the typewriter is completely blank, but she doesn’t feel like writing anything. She stares around the office, pointedly avoiding the wall, and tries not to feel too angry or too disappointed. It doesn’t work very well.

Beatrice walks back into the hallway and shuts the door behind her, frowning down at the floor. She follows him all this way, and she has him, they’re mere feet from each other, and then he leaves?

Maybe, she thinks, and then she stops, because she’s not wrong. It was him, it was, and despite how the decor has changed, this is the office she was in before. He was here, and then he was gone, and so there has to be a reason he’s gone now, a reason to figure out so she can track him down again. Maybe something came up, business, or an enemy, or maybe he was just hungry, or—or—

sssssssssshh.

Beatrice whirls around and wrenches his office door back open, staring desperately inside. But there’s still no one there. She shuts the door again and looks up and down the hallway. “What was that noise?” she says.

The door down the hallway opens again, and the same man sticks his head out. “Someone say something?” he asks, gazing at Beatrice.

“What was that noise?” she asks.

The man shakes his head. “I didn’t hear a noise.”

“I thought I—”

“It was nothing, probably.” He raises an eyebrow. “You know, shouldn’t you be in school?”

“Shouldn’t you be working?” Beatrice shoots back. It’s uncharacteristic of her, but she’s tired all of a sudden, and she doesn’t like how this bone-deep weariness feels. The man looks affronted, and he shuts his door with a loud bang.

She traipses downstairs, all thirteen floors. Beatrice walks past the old desk and the sad grey furniture and the limp potted plants and makes her way towards the front exit. She’ll just have to wait until he comes back, and she can do that across the street in the diner, where at least she can try to wrangle another sandwich out of Jake Hix. The grilled cheese feels like years ago, after trying to survive on the mountain.

Beatrice hears it again.

It’s a scuffle, or like a slither—the drag of a shoe, a split second brush against furniture.

Beatrice stops in the middle of the lobby, looking around. She only now notices it’s completely empty, the receptionist missing from her desk. A chill ripples down her spine that has nothing to do with the air conditioner. “If it’s nothing,” she says, “then what’s that noise?”

Something curls slowly around her left ankle, something like thin, calloused fingers, and then a hand clamps tight over her mouth. Beatrice gasps, the sound muffled by the hand. Someone heaves her up, jerking her back into a set of arms, wrenching her close to something dark blue and black. She inhales fabric softener and cotton but the color makes her think of salt and brine and she can’t breathe. She can’t breathe.

“When we drive away in secret,” rasps a woman’s voice in her ear, “you’ll be a volunteer. So don’t scream when we take you—”

Beatrice grabs at the woman’s hand with both her own. She drags it away from her mouth and manages to gasp, “The world is quiet here!”

The woman freezes. Beatrice lurches forward, tumbling out of her arms and onto the warped floor with a small shriek and a horrible thud. Beatrice feels horrible, with a red mark around her ankle and her whole body shaking as she stares up at the woman. She doesn’t understand, and that scares her almost as much as the woman. She hadn’t just learned the poem at headquarters, Violet had told her about it, it was something Violet’s parents used to say, but she didn’t—she hadn’t said—Beatrice doesn’t understand.

The woman—tall, in a thin, dark blue sweater, her hair massive and unruly and black—bends down in front of her. Beatrice inches back, trying to catch her breath.

She squints at Beatrice almost suspiciously. “Well, young lady,” she says, “have you been good to your mother?”

My mother is dead, Beatrice thinks in her panic, and then she forces herself to clear her throat and stop it. “The question is,” she pants, “has she been good to me?”

“You’re a volunteer,” the woman says.

No I’m not. “Yes.”

“What’s your name?”

“Beatrice Baudelaire,” Beatrice says.

The woman raises an eyebrow. “Baudelaire?” she repeats, scoffing. “Beatrice Baudelaire?”

Beatrice frowns. “Yes,” she says again.

“Do you really expect me to believe that?”

“I do,” Beatrice says, blinking. “It’s the only name I have.” Which isn’t exactly true, but she’s never felt that Snicket suits her all that much. Beatrice Denouement, even, sounds like someone sophisticated, not a short nine-year-old girl with only a fierce determination to her name. Which is still Beatrice Baudelaire, no matter what this woman says.

The woman straightens up, her face cold, and then she seizes Beatrice’s hand and pulls her roughly to her feet. “You’re coming with me.”

Headquarters in the city is a lot different than the one Beatrice was in out in the country. The main difference is that this one is predominately underground, hidden under a two-story library on the corner of a busy street, and seems, from a cursory glance, like it’s going to be harder to sneak out of. They had to walk through a set of locked double doors in the back of the library labeled Secretarial Department, which lead to a long, tunneling hallway devoid of any typewriters, after all. It’s full of sudden dips and the occasional staircase and one long ladder that leads, when Beatrice climbs down it, to the sewers. She focuses hard on the layout, the curves of the passageways, the way the water drips, on the faded signs she can’t read hanging onto the domed walls, so that she’ll stop thinking about the churning in her stomach.

The path ends in another set of doors, framed in the darkness by flickering torches. Beatrice stumbles to a halt in front of them.

She’s sure that Violet and Klaus and Sunny, while they were on the island and on the boat, had to have used it. There were things Sunny made that could only have been made on top of something hot, even though Sunny always got that fierce, unreadable look on her face when she talked about what she could remember of fires. But Beatrice never saw it. She never saw flames jumping around each other, spitting in the darkness, smoldering orange turning into dangerous white-hot tongues.

Beatrice thinks of lightning and wet, foundering wood under her hands. She feels salt in her mouth again.

The woman shoves her through the doors.

The narrow hallways are bathed in cold, buzzing orange light, an unsettling color against the red brick walls and the hardwood floor. It’s almost claustrophobic, a maze Beatrice can’t parse even when she pays attention. They go up a set of stairs, their footsteps echoing in the silence, and then the woman steers her towards a door around the corner.

She catches a quick glimpse of the plaque on the door and its unnatural shine—vice principal—before the woman pushes her through it as well. Beatrice finds herself in a cramped, shadowy room, illuminated with one single lamp on the desk, where the outline of a tall man sits, hunched over what looks like a stack of papers.

It takes a moment for her eyes to adjust to the thin gloom hovering at the edges of the lamp. The shapes on the shelves along the walls sharpen. They look like tea sets, if tea sets were collections of just small, differently-patterned oblong jars, all topped with fragile lids, a handle on either side.

Beatrice swallows. She never saw what Esmé Squalor was so desperate to find. She wonders if one of the sugar bowls crowding the shelves around her is what she was looking for.

The man looks up and sets down his pen. “Who’s this?” he asks, his voice a low, heavy murmur.

“My name is Beatrice Baudelaire,” Beatrice says, before the woman can say anything.

The man raises an eyebrow at her, like the woman had, and then leans back in his chair. The look he gives her isn’t suspicious—it’s appraising. Beatrice shivers.

“Well,” he says.

They put her in a room down the hall and tell her firmly to stay put. It’s a windowless room with pale walls and only a few other students, all of them her age and sitting behind typewriters, and a particularly flatfooted and wrinkled old instructor, who starts sobbing when Beatrice tells him her name. He motions to a free chair with a long white handkerchief and manages to tell her that they’re writing business letters. He motions to the blackboard and tells her there’s the format. He motions to the typewriter in front of her and tells her, please, write a nice letter, and they’ll all make it through the day.

He shuffles away from her, back to the front of the room. Beatrice watches him go with a confused frown. She doesn’t have time for this—to be stuck here again, or to try and figure out what’s going on, or to try and reason what she’s supposed to say in a business letter. She drops her eyes to the typewriter. It’s not too bad, but certainly not as nice as the one in her uncle’s office. She presses a few of the keys to test them, and they stick and then stab back into the air with loud, fierce snaps, so much that she jolts back in her chair. He’d never give her a typewriter this bad.

Beatrice gets an idea.

She has to get word to him somehow. She has to survive, too, and she’s perfectly capable of doing that anywhere, although she would prefer to do it in a situation where she isn’t at risk of being accosted violently around the ankle at any given moment, among other things. It seems like her best bet to get to him is to stay here, and not wait, this time, but let them lead her to him. It won’t be too hard. This city and this organization are his. He’s here, in this room, and he’s here, in this city, and she knows she will find him if she stays here.

She gives herself a shake and rests her fingers on the keys.

Dear Sir, she types, one eye on the instructor, now leaning against the wall and wiping his face with the handkerchief. I am writing to inquire further on the matter we discussed earlier this year. I’m in my business letter writing class, which is taught by a flat-footed man so sad and unaware that I am certain he will give me an A on this assignment without reading anything but the first sentence of each paragraph. I could say anything here at all. For instance: a “baticeer” is a person who trains bats. I learned that in a poem I watched you read.

The instructor straightens up, still dabbing under his eyes, and wanders around the room, glancing periodically at the typewriters. Beatrice schools her expression into business-like thoughtfulness. When he comes by, he scans the first line of her letter, heaves an enormous sigh, and keeps walking.

After careful consideration, Beatrice continues, biting down a smile, I am pleased to enclose the following information.

The instructors confirm her identity after careful consultation with twenty different people, all of whom Beatrice has never seen before, and a series of photographs and files Beatrice isn’t allowed to see, all of them crowded in an office and staring down at her an hour and a half after Beatrice has finished her business letter.

They tell her it was very irresponsible of her to sneak out like that from the country headquarters. Beatrice does not tell them it was very irresponsible to have a lock so easy to pick and a headquarters so easy to navigate in the dark. She stares back up at them, tries to look appropriately chided, and hopes they’ll think she feels appropriately chided. What she does feel is cornered.

One of the adults standing towards the back, his face in shadows, scoffs under his breath. “Just like her uncle,” he says.

“Which one?” asks another.

“You know,” he says, waving a dismissive hand. “That one.”

“The dead one?”

“Aren’t they both dead?” asks a different voice.

“No, I’m sure at least one of them is alive—didn’t you get that message?”

“You know for a fact I haven’t gotten a single olive jar in three months, since someone broke my refrigerator—”

“For the last time,” someone sighs, “I did not break your refrigerator—”

Beatrice takes the opportunity to slip unnoticed from the room and into the hallway. She takes slow steps, listening to the little click of her shoes on the tile. The adults at the country headquarters had been secretive but easy to predict. The adults here, though—

She stops. She peers down, past the hem of her dress, and lets herself look at her left ankle.

It’s not that she doesn’t like it here, with this organization. They’ve given her a place to stay, and most of the volunteers her age were kind to her at the last headquarters. Most of all, she has vague memories of Violet telling her that people who read that many books can’t be all bad, that most of them were just trying their best, that they’d been noble enough in the end. But she’d said it with a curious look on her face that Beatrice can almost picture, like there was so much more Violet wasn’t sure how to say, like she still hadn’t figured something out, and it hurt to think about it.

That silence had carved out a worry in Beatrice, a hole she feels in her stomach now. She tries to imagine a permanent mark on her ankle, a tie, an anchor, bigger than a promise to be noble enough. She knows what Violet and Klaus and Sunny told her about what happened to them, and she knows what she’s read in the thirteen files, and she knows Klaus wrote in his commonplace book that the organization was their only hope. She knows there are a good many details that maybe they hadn’t left out when they told her their story, but maybe just hadn’t gotten around to telling her at the time. Beatrice knows about the hard choices between what seems right or wrong—and she knows the iron grip that woman had on her ankle. She knows about the circumstances that killed her family, her uncle, her parents.

Because she could be wrong, she has to be certain. Beatrice doesn’t like being wrong. She looks up at the hallway, the old pictures on the walls, the lack of windows, the flickering lights casting shadows around her, and tries to feel certain that her only choice is to stay.

With the considerable amount of volunteers in the city, Beatrice figures she’ll have to share a room with someone, but one of the adults takes her to a single room, off to the side, and tells her, once again, to stay there and not make any trouble.

It’s a simple room, with a bed, a closet, a desk, two lamps, and a bookshelf (already stocked, and she stops perusing it when she finds the book about the girl and the egg and the family dinner, because her hands start to shake). No windows. The walls are all solid stone, but the floors are wood, and Beatrice turns the lights off and stands in almost total darkness—there’s still a sliver of light under the door from the hallway—and tests out the places where the floor squeaks for hours. She memorizes the room, feels with her hands for catches or knobs or secret compartments and doesn’t find a single one.

The light under the door disappears. Beatrice, standing by the bed on the opposite wall, goes completely still. She listens.

After ten seconds, the lock on the door clicks.

After a whole three minutes, the shadow under the door still hasn’t moved. Beatrice swallows and keeps watching. She knows better than to try and pick this lock. They aren’t going to make getting out easy. Finding him might not be as easy as she thought, either.

That doesn’t mean I won’t, Beatrice thinks.

She fully expects to sit through their classes again, to tell the teacher how Sunny taught her to make a meringue, to relearn the same codes she learned from Klaus’s commonplace book, to listen to someone besides Violet explain the scientific principles of the convergence and refraction of light.

She doesn’t. Instead, she finds herself in the vice principal’s office again, early in the morning, although it’s impossible to tell in all the shadows in his office. She takes a moment to wonder where the principal is, but then the vice principal starts talking.

“You strike me as a young woman with a lot on her mind,” he says. “Someone very intent on her goals. And we value that here, you know. Commitment, dedication, loyalty. I think you—and the organization—would benefit the most if we assigned you to a chaperone immediately. There’s a place for you in this world, Miss Baudelaire, and I am most anxious for you to find it.”

Beatrice almost thinks he’s being incredibly nice, if it isn’t for the way his eyes glitter and the way he leans back in his chair, so slowly she barely notices until he’s staring down at her, almost pinning her in place.

Violet did teach her to be polite, but she also taught her to stand her ground. She swallows. “Thank you very much,” she says. “Do I get to pick my chaperone?”

“I’m afraid not,” he says, and he doesn’t sound the least bit apologetic. “We haven’t allowed that for quite some time.” The vice principal smiles. “It lead to some unfortunate events.”

Her chaperone is a woman named Marguerite. Beatrice looks through every record available and can’t find any positive proof that Marguerite has ever had a last name. What she does find out is that Marguerite spent her own apprenticeship working with the remaining volunteer animals.

She gets a letter telling her to meet her at the aquarium on the other side of the city, with just enough for the bus fare. Beatrice checks the letter over and over again the whole way there, but she doesn’t find any other hint about what she’s supposed to do to find her chaperone.

Beatrice wanders the aquarium for a long, uneasy hour before a short woman with chin-length, curly blonde hair catches her eye by the jellyfish tank. The woman gestures at one of the jellyfish. “I always thought they looked like clouds,” she says, in a soft voice. “I like to look at them when summer is dying.”

Beatrice bites her lip. She stares at the jellyfish and tries not to see them, tries to watch the reflections in the glass instead. Summer is dying. She always thought she’d be good at codes if she had to use them, but actually hearing them out loud just makes her uncomfortable. It could just be all the water, though.

“Well,” she says carefully, “summer is over and gone. And you can see clouds any time, you just have to look for them.”

The woman smiles, a surprisingly gentle smile, the lines at the corners of her eyes crinkling. Beatrice thinks she looks too young to have lines like that. “Marguerite,” she says, extending her hand. “You must be Beatrice.”

Beatrice shakes her hand.

“What sort of animals do you like, Beatrice?”

Beatrice looks away from the eerie blue glow of the tanks around them and says the first thing that comes to mind. “I don’t think bats are all that bad.”

As it turns out, the organization’s last collection of trainable bats is in the hills. The whole trek back into the mist, Beatrice can’t help but think her timing could sure use some work.

Beatrice and Marguerite set up camp in the cave, close to the shepherds and obviously very close to the bats. They pull down the remains of the wallpaper, and between the two of them, Violet’s inventing knowledge, and another piece of wire from Marguerite’s pocket, they rig up the light bulb. It casts a dim and hollow yellow light around the cave before it sputters and flickers, drenching them in a momentary darkness before lighting back up.

Beatrice gasps out of shock. The light bulb reminds her of the lamp in the vice principal’s office, something scary and unknown in a place that’s supposed to be safe. Fear grips her chest, and she makes an excuse to Marguerite that she doesn’t even remember and gets out of the cave as quickly as possible. She sits at the mouth of the cave in the darkness with her legs stretched out in front of her, her hands in her lap. Beatrice tells herself that hugging her legs to her chest would not be very mature.

Marguerite comes over and sits down beside her, not too close but not too far away. “Some children are afraid of the dark,” she says.

“I’m not,” Beatrice says, truthfully. Klaus taught her constellations, and Sunny made up her own, and Violet made a telescope so they could see them better. Beatrice knows there are beautiful things in the darkness, and she likes the quiet.

“It’s alright if you are,” Marguerite says gently.

Beatrice knows why Marguerite says that. It’s something a lot of the chaperones think. Some of the adults themselves are probably scared of the dark, even when they haven’t lived through a storm at sea. But she’s not. She’s not scared of the dark. The afternoon was when the storm started, and the dark was when the storm stopped, when everything calmed down. She couldn’t see anything at all, not the broken wood under her fingers or how alone she was, and she could breathe. She could keep floating and imagine Violet and Klaus and Sunny were still right there, telling her she’d make it.

Too much light is what frightens her. Too much light, like a jagged streak through the sky, lightning carving the boat in two, illuminating every fractured piece and the fear on Sunny’s usually calm face. The flashlights of the volunteers who found her, combing the beach for something else, the beams cutting cold white light against the sand.

“Beatrice?”

Beatrice looks up. She uncurls her fingers, which she only now notices had clenched tight into her palms. She swallows. “I’m not afraid.”

Marguerite smiles. She reaches over and squeezes one of Beatrice’s hands, just once.

“We’re going to be training bats to deliver messages,” Marguerite says in the morning. “It’ll be useful, especially all the way out here in the hills.”

Beatrice stares at Marguerite, and she hopes her incredulity isn’t too apparent on her face. She clears her throat and tries to think about how Violet would address this. “Are bats really the best to use?” she asks. “What about telegram wires, or even just pigeons, since they could fly at any time, or—”

“Sometimes we have to send messages at night, and bats come in handy for that.” Marguerite doesn’t interrupt her, just speaks patiently, reasonably, like making a point in a casual debate. “Sometimes the easier way can be more dangerous. People expect that more than something different.”

Beatrice isn’t sure if that makes complete sense. Marguerite definitely notices her confusion, and she smiles. Marguerite smiles a lot, but it’s never condescending. “It can be a little hard to understand,” she says. “I thought it was when I was your age, too. But it’s not a volunteer’s job to question, Beatrice. It’s a volunteer’s job to know, and to trust in what they’re doing.”

Somehow, it sounds right the way Marguerite says it, with her soothing voice. It sounds right, the idea of just knowing, since Beatrice is so certain in it anyway. She has to remind herself that they started this whole conversation about the absurdity of bats being used as a messenger system to counteract that. Beatrice has seen a lot of absurd things, because Violet told her about all her inventions over the years, and Beatrice isn’t quite sure how all of them worked but she knows that they did. But training bats, especially to deliver messages, just seems to take it a little too far.

“It’ll take a bit of time before we can train them that well, though,” Marguerite says. “Have you ever held one before?”

At the very least, training bats gives Beatrice something to think about. You really have to focus, otherwise they squeak too much. It gets easy after a while, once Beatrice knows how to do it. Marguerite is impressed, but Beatrice just tells her that you can do anything as long as you know how to do it.

Marguerite isn’t very talkative, which Beatrice appreciates. What she does say doesn’t always make that much sense, but she never pushes Beatrice or pressures her. She tells Beatrice stories about her own apprenticeship, the last of the volunteer feline detectives and what Marguerite’s own chaperone told her about the eagles. It’s the kindest anyone has ever treated her since Violet and Klaus and Sunny, and that makes Beatrice feel more comfort than she has in some time.

Beatrice is hunched over a notebook while sitting at the mouth of the cave, trying to figure out how to get the bats to follow the patterns of the yaks, because she’s sure that makes at least some sense, when the young shepherd who loaned her the yak last time comes up to her. Beatrice smiles at him, but she stops when she sees how nervous he looks.

“Can I help you?” she asks.

The shepherd bites his lip, looking over his shoulder at Marguerite, who’s examining one of the yaks in the field, and then motions quickly at Beatrice. “You forgot something,” he says.

Beatrice frowns. “What?”

He reaches into one of his pockets and pulls out a small circle. The weak sunlight catches on the slim gold band and the dark diamond set in the center, and Beatrice’s heart leaps when she can see the thin initial in the stone. He puts the ring in Beatrice’s hand and presses her fingers around it.

“I think you might be able to give it back to her, one of these days,” he says.

“Do you know her?” Beatrice asks, clutching the ring with both hands. “Do you know where—”

But the shepherd shakes his head, glances again at Marguerite, goes rigid when he sees the older shepherd approaching her, and then scampers away. Beatrice watches him go, until he’s a shrinking figure among the yaks and she can hear Marguerite calling her name. She lets herself wonder, for a moment, where the Duchess of Winnipeg is now, how much the shepherd knows, why no one can ever give her a clear answer. Then she reminds herself that none of that matters. She has all the answers she needs. She just has to get through this. She just has to get through this, and find her uncle, and then find her family, and she just has to get through this.

She slips the ring in her pocket.

She turns ten while they’re in the hills, which she only knows because she packed a calendar this time. She doesn’t tell Marguerite because Beatrice doesn’t want her to make a big deal out of it, because Marguerite would, and Beatrice spends that night staring up at the stars and trying to make up her own constellations. She connects lines and dots into books, wrenches, a whisk. Then, with her eyes shut tight, she tries to remember that last birthday. It was four or five years ago now, wasn’t it? And there was cake, she knows there was.

Beatrice forces her eyes open. What she remembers is Violet, tying her hair back with a ribbon as she worked on the boat; Klaus, adjusting his glasses as he read to Beatrice from a book; Sunny, talking cheerfully into the radio Violet had built. Everything else is all in pieces, a puzzle she’s losing the parts to.

I have to find them, she thinks, blinking fast. No. I will find them.

The first time Beatrice sends out a bat and it comes back, days later, with a message from one of the shepherds they’d sent out to expect it, she feels a lot more pride than she ever thought she would about training bats to be mail carriers. Marguerite laughs and sweeps Beatrice up into a tight hug, drawing her close, and Beatrice hugs her back.

In late summer, the hills still misty and chilly, they get called back to the city. Marguerite and Beatrice make their way back to the city on foot this time, through all the hills, no mountain. Beatrice sorely wishes she still had the yak.

When they get back to the city, Beatrice actually doesn’t see much of Marguerite. Marguerite tells her only that something is happening, but not exactly what. In the meantime, she tells Beatrice it’s for the best if Beatrice stays at headquarters, where she can write up the reports on training the bats. Beatrice figures someone would’ve had to write the reports at some point, so she doesn’t mind—except that someone seems to be watching her at all times, especially when she uses a typewriter.

Beatrice spends most of her time underground and growing increasingly frustrated, because it’s been months since she’s written to him, months since he’s heard from her, and he must be wondering where she is. He must be. She’s watched mail leave the city headquarters, and they never put a return address on anything. How can he write back to her if he doesn’t know where she is?

But he has to know. He’s been here. He’s in this city, and so is she, and wouldn’t he be able to figure out what happened to her, being a detective and all, or at least a man who has that printed on his door? He went through this too, he knows where she is, why does it have to take so long?

Marguerite comes back, and they go on assignments and scope out pet stores and parks and the occasional fancy restaurant, but Marguerite also lets her look in every single diner window they pass, and lets her linger on the street with the Rhetorical Building, even when the street is wildly out of their way. Then they go on less and less assignments, and she sees less and less of Marguerite, and Beatrice spends her time in so much silence that it starts to dig under her skin, a burrowing restlessness.

At night, she sneaks into the record room again. She isn’t sure what she’s looking for. Maybe the four files she couldn’t find at the country headquarters, or anything about her family, or anything about the organization. Anything at all about anything. And it’s not to find anything new, it can’t be, it’s just—it’s just to reassure her. He’s going to find her. She’s going to find him. They’re going to find her family.

In the back of the room, in a dusty filing cabinet drawer she has to pry open with two pens, she finds a thin, dark brown folder half-stuck under the back of the cabinet. Beatrice wiggles it out, flips it open, and sees the shape of a single piece of paper. She pulls out a flashlight from her pocket, steels herself, and flicks it on, squinting against the light.

It looks like a legal document, almost like a sort of deed, yellowed with age. Beatrice scans through it, and her frown deepens when she finds out it’s for a room in an office building, a room on a fourteenth floor, an office—an office in the Rhetorical Building, right above his. Beatrice grips the edges of the paper and reads further. Her heart stops dead when she sees a bold, imposing signature in red pen across the bottom of the page.

Beatrice Baudelaire.

She’s been in the building, but she’s certainly never tried to get an office there. This must be her, she realizes, reminding herself to inhale. This must be who they named her after.

Beatrice knows about Beatrice Baudelaire. She wasn’t just engaged to Beatrice’s uncle once, she was a person, a mother. She taught Klaus how to fence and how to throw a punch, and she taught Sunny how to scream, and she taught Violet how to stand her ground and be fierce and formidable. She could bake and sing and act, and she ate strawberries in the summer and danced with her husband to old records and took her family to the beach and read long books to them and did different voices for each character. Now, years later, here she is. A whisper in Beatrice’s ear, a gentle kiss on her forehead.

Beatrice Baudelaire sounds like she was a wonderful mother.

Beatrice shakes her head quickly and slips the deed into her pocket. It’s not like she thinks about her own mother a lot. Beatrice knows all about her anyway. Kit Snicket was a good person, a volunteer, someone who helped. So was Dewey Denouement. But sometimes she wonders, just a little, just for a moment, what things would be like if her mother was alive. If her father was alive. If they would’ve liked her. If they would’ve read to her, if they would’ve taught her things, if they would’ve liked strawberries or some other fruit and if they danced and if they baked and if they could act or sing. If she’d still be here, scrambling for the remains of her family. If she’d still see flashes of lightning when she closes her eyes, and the harpoon gun and fungus she’s imagined and the sandy grave at the far edges of her memory and the Baudelaires got their parents, didn’t they, if only for a while, how come she didn’t get hers, how could Violet and Klaus and Sunny do that—

Something creaks upstairs.

Beatrice slips from the records room, shuts the door, and feels her way through the darkness. Her hands find the banister of the stairs, and she creeps up them slowly, waiting for another noise.

The upstairs floor creaks for a second, and then stops. Then another creak, a little further down the hall, like someone’s taking long strides, trying to be light and quick. Beatrice heads up the rest of the stairs and sees the hazy outline of a shape in the darkness, one with short, curly hair.

“Marguerite?”

Marguerite turns, looking over her shoulder, still poised to keep going down the hallway. “Beatrice,” she breathes.

Beatrice hasn’t seen her in what feels like ages, although she knows it’s only been about a week. She walks towards Marguerite, and even in the darkness she can feel a heavy tension in the air. “Where are you going?”

Marguerite turns around all the way and bends down in front of Beatrice. “I’m sorry,” she says softly, “but I have to leave.”

Beatrice hears every word of that sentence perfectly, and somehow she still doesn’t understand it. She blinks. “What do you mean?”

“I was going to leave this with the vice principal for you,” Marguerite says. Beatrice hears a slight rustle, Marguerite digging in a pocket. She takes Beatrice’s hand and places something in it, a curved, spiral wire with a handle at the top. A corkscrew. “Something—something came up, and it’s not safe for me to be in the city anymore. I’m starting back for the hills tonight.”

“I can go with you,” Beatrice says, “I can—”

“No,” Marguerite sighs. “I can’t take you with me. I really am—so, so sorry, Beatrice.” Her voice cracks, and her hand settles on Beatrice’s shoulder. “There was so much I was looking forward to, so many things I wanted to do with you, but sometimes things don’t work out how you want them to. But you’ll be okay, I know you will. You’re brave and resourceful, and you’ll be a wonderful volunteer.”

Beatrice frowns at the slim outline of Marguerite’s face. Her fingers curl around the corkscrew, pushing it hard into her hand. She swallows and finds a lump in her throat, one she tries to breathe around. “But I—”

“Don’t worry,” Marguerite says. Her voice is still so gentle, but it doesn’t make sense with her words. Nothing about any of this makes sense. “You’ll know what to do, Beatrice. We all do. I know you will.”

“I know now,” Beatrice says quickly, “I just—”

“I have to go,” Marguerite whispers. The weight of her hand disappears from Beatrice’s shoulder, and then her face is gone, and Beatrice stands in the hall and listens to Marguerite’s progress downstairs from the distant creak of the floorboards. The sound of footsteps vanishes not long after, and Beatrice is alone. The metal of the corkscrew sits cold against her palm.

Beatrice listens, and listens, and listens, and hears nothing else.

Beatrice hasn’t cried in a long time. She knows she has—everyone does when they’re younger, and she can remember, through that fog, Sunny making faces at her to cheer her up—but it feels such a wrong thing to do now. Hot tears spill down her cheeks, her eyes squeezing shut, her mouth pressed tight so the rising whimper in her throat doesn’t escape.

It’s not as if she didn’t expect Marguerite to leave. All the chaperones do, eventually, and even if she had liked Marguerite she knew somewhere it wouldn’t last. She just didn’t think it would happen like this, so soon, that just like that she’d be gone, swept away from her. All the thoughts Beatrice tries so hard not to think come rushing into her—how much longer will this take, how much longer will she have to do this, how much longer will this feel, because she feels ten years old for the first time and so lost, still adrift in an ocean that could tear her apart as much as it could lead her somewhere safe. She wants to go home, but the only people who were ever home to her feel further away than ever. In a second, the despair and uncertainty she’s been running from overtake her like a crashing wave.

She thinks awful, vicious things. The Baudelaires are dead or they would’ve come for her by now; her uncle hates her and never wants to see her; her mother was a horrible person to die and leave her all alone like this; she’ll grow up like they all did, abandoned.

Beatrice walks back to her room, step by step. She shuts the door, and then sinks down and starts sobbing into her knees.

The vice principal calls her to his office the next morning. Beatrice sits in the chair in front of his desk, her hands in her lap. She’s shoved the memory and the uncertainty and the guilt of last night to the back of her mind, but it still flutters in her lungs, a light panic she tries to smother with each careful breath.

He seems to have acquired even more sugar bowls since the last time she was in here, and they tower above her on those whisper-thin shelves and make the office feel even tighter. A different item sits on the shelf right behind his desk, about the size of a milk bottle, and Beatrice stares at it. It stares back at her with a dark, beady eye, the long face and snout of an impossibly cruel animal, teeth bared and black. Then she notices—it’s only half of a statue, like it’s been cut down the middle, revealing a smooth, solid wood interior.

The vice principal himself looks unbothered, impassive as always. “It seems you’re without a chaperone,” he says.

Her hands tighten together involuntarily. “I’ve been without a chaperone before,” she says, and her voice only trembles a little.

He smiles. It is a thin and humorless smile, smug, and he leans slowly, too casually, back in his chair, his elbows on the armrests and his own hands folded neatly. She wishes he would stop doing that.

“You look like you want to ask me something,” he says.

Where is my family and when will I find them?

But she knows he won’t tell her. “What do you want to ask me?” she says instead.

The vice principal almost laughs. His eyes are dark and fathomless blue. “What did Marguerite leave you?”

Beatrice does not think of the corkscrew up in her room. But she has to say something, she has to show him something. She puts her hand in her pocket and finds the folded-up deed she’d stuck there last night. A deed for an office in the Rhetorical Building. A deed signed with an identical name.

She stares at the vice principal straight on. “An office,” she says. “On the fourteenth floor of the Rhetorical Building.” Beatrice pulls the paper from her pocket, unfolds it, and sets it square on his desk.

He stares at it, and then keeps staring at it, his eyes flicking over the paper as if looking for a loophole. When he doesn’t find any, his mouth thins, his jaw clenching. She’s never seen him with so much emotion on his face before.

“I’ll need a typewriter,” Beatrice says.

The next thing Beatrice does is get business cards. They say Beatrice Baudelaire, so no one will bother her about that, and then Baticeer Extraordinaire, because that’s the closest thing to an occupation she has right now, and then The Rhetorical Building, since that is the name of the building, and finally Fourteenth Floor, which is self-explanatory.

The third thing she does is go to her office. It hasn’t been used in a long time, so it’s empty and dusty and even colder than the lobby, and full of one too many spiders. Beatrice spends an afternoon cleaning the years out of it, and even repairs the radiator, Violet’s ribbon keeping her hair back from her face.

She sets her typewriter carefully on the desk, puts Klaus’s commonplace book in one of the locked drawers, puts the corkscrew in a completely different drawer, and then realizes she has very little else to put in the room. A business card taped to the door, some paper beside the typewriter. The brochures and books she collected from the train stations lined up on the little shelf on the wall. She keeps the Duchess of Winnipeg’s ring on a long chain around her neck so she always has it with her and no one else can see it.

She uses the back entrance so she doesn’t have to go through the lobby.

She stays awake in the office the first few nights, watching the window in the dark in case they try to come back for her, but Beatrice is left alone there.

Beatrice doesn’t know how old the building is exactly, but it must be old, because the wood creaks, and it creaks specifically and consistently in his office, right below hers, muffled but very distinct.

She finishes typing her most recent letter, pulls it out of the typewriter, then takes the corkscrew from her desk and sits down in the middle of the floor.

The wood parts, splitting easily into tiny spiral shavings, and Beatrice keeps twisting and twisting the corkscrew until there’s a reasonable hole in the floor and she can hear the creaking a little more clearly. It’s a small hole, not large enough to see through but large enough to put her letter through if she rolls it into a tiny tube, like she said she would. She throws the corkscrew back on her desk, grabs the letter, and starts to roll it up.

The creaking stops. Then the wood groans low, like he’s leaning on a specific spot, and she leans close and listens.

“Snicket,” says a woman’s voice.

Beatrice startles, jumping back with a slight gasp. She didn’t account for someone else, she didn’t think he knew anyone else, she didn’t think it wouldn’t be him pacing. She doesn’t know who this is.

“Did you always have that hole in your ceiling?” the woman says.

Someone replies. Beatrice can’t hear what he says, but the voice is a low murmur. That’s him, she thinks, biting her lip. That’s him

“You want me to come in here and find you buried under your ceiling one of these days?” the woman continues. “Don’t you think I deal with enough already as your editor?”

He says something else, something Beatrice still can’t hear.

The woman sighs. “If we don’t leave soon, we’re going to be late, and Cleo might just kill you.”

Beatrice waits until she hears the door close, and then sits for a few seconds in the silence, willing her heart to stop rocketing in her chest. She re-rolls the letter, looks down at the hole, and then pushes the letter through it and presses her ear against the floor. Beatrice can just barely hear it bounce off the ceiling fan, uncurl, and land open and waiting on his desk with the tiniest crinkle of the paper.

She sits back on the floor with a long sigh. She hopes she isn’t waiting too long, and Beatrice doesn’t do a very good job of squashing down the worry that she might not know how long it’ll take.

She waits a whole week and still doesn’t get a reply. No one comes to her door, no one tries to get in through the fire escape, no one leaves any secret messages anywhere, and she doesn’t hear anyone pacing in the office below her. She doesn’t hear the woman’s voice, and she doesn’t hear any sign that he’s in there at all. Everything is eerily quiet.

Beatrice goes across the street to the diner, because she figures being miserable but not hungry is better than being miserable and hungry. When she pushes the door open, Jake Hix catches sight of her from behind the counter and grins broadly. “Hey, Beatrice!”

She means to smile, but there are four people sitting at the counter, and all of them turn and look at her with interest. Two men wearing glasses who look like brothers, a sharp-eyed blonde woman in a cloche hat, and then the man in the middle, pale and staring at her with wide eyes. Beatrice looks back at him, suddenly breathless. Not just a mysterious figure she’s never seen, or one she glimpsed in the middle of a chase, but a real, physical person in front of her.

“It’s you!” she exclaims. “You’re here!”

They keep eye contact for a single, almost terrifying second—but then he clears his throat, holds up a hand, and spins around, putting his back to her.

Beatrice stands there, torn between disbelief and irritation. The other two men say something, and the woman rolls her eyes, gets up, pulls them to their feet, and herds them past Beatrice and out of the diner.

“Give him a moment,” the woman whispers to her, winking.

She doesn’t want to, she wants to go over and sit beside him and get right to things, but she picks a corner booth by the window anyway and sits down. She still has a good view of the counter from here. She swallows and tries to quell her anticipation. She wonders how long a moment is, to her uncle.

Jake walks over and gives her a smile. “What can I get you?”

Beatrice looks over his elbow at the counter, at the glass resting in front of her uncle. It occurs to her that she’s actually never had his drink of choice. She looks back up at Jake. “A root beer float.”

Jake smiles.

“And, could you please do me a favor?” she asks, unzipping her bag and digging around inside. “If I give you a message, would you give it to him?”

“Sure thing,” Jake says.

She takes out one of her business cards and turns it over.

Cocktail Time

I am sorry I embarrassed you in front of your friends. I only wanted to talk to you.

The waiter agreed to bring this card with your drink. If you don’t want to meet me, rip it in half when you are done with your root beer float, and I will leave and never try to contact you again.

Ideally, she doesn’t want to say that, to give him an out, now that they’re both here, now that she’s this close, but it’s polite. She figures he’ll appreciate that.

But if you want to meet me, she continues, biting her lip, I’m the ten-year-old girl at the corner table.

B.

Beatrice folds the card in half and hands it to Jake. She watches Jake walk back to the counter, lean in and hand her card to her uncle, watches him open it with shaking fingers. He reads it, but he doesn’t turn around and look at her yet. He takes a sip of his root beer.

Jake brings her her own root beer, and she drinks it and barely tastes it, her eyes still fixed on her uncle. She reminds herself not to swing her legs and settles for jiggling her foot against the smooth tile, a tiny little tap as she waits and waits and waits. She thinks of looking anywhere else, trying to remain sophisticated and calm, because this is it, for real, but she doesn’t want to miss a single thing. She curls her hands together in her lap, forgets about the root beer float. She counts out the seconds in her head, stops when she thinks it’s stupid, starts again when he pushes his glass away and looks at the note again.

Finally, he stands up. He refolds her business card and puts it in his pocket. Then he turns, and he faces Beatrice, coming over and stopping beside her table.

He’s just like how Beatrice imagined him, now that she can finally see him, instead of just across a crowded street or a library wing. Definitely average height, if a little bit taller, in a grey suit and tie, his hair dark, thin at the temples. He looks at her half-finished drink, and then slowly meets her eyes, and they are blue, the same blue as hers, the best color she’s ever seen, brighter than every dark and endless sea. The corners of his mouth turn up a little, although it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He sits down across from her and extends his hand.

“My name is Lemony Snicket,” he says, his voice deep but soft, just as she expected.

Beatrice smiles, and her face almost hurts with the force of it. She shakes his hand with both of hers. “Beatrice Baudelaire.”

Lemony Snicket takes her to the park a few streets over and buys her ice cream. She points out that they could’ve had ice cream in the diner, but he tells her that he would rather have their conversation away from where a journalist could come back at any second and faithfully record every single moment of it. Beatrice eats her vanilla with sprinkles and figures the journalist had to be the woman, with eyes like that, and then she watches her uncle. Her uncle, real and in person after all this time, after almost two long years of searching, finally beside her.

He matches her pace, which isn’t very brisk, but he looks like he could run at a moment’s notice. He keeps his hat drawn low over his eyes, his gaze lingering on shadowy trees and exits and every single discarded cigarette butt before moving away. He takes quick, economical bites of his ice cream (vanilla, caramel swirl, in a cone).

“Did you like my business card?” Beatrice asks. Her voice comes out a little louder than she intended, which probably explains why Lemony jumps.

He pulls her business card out of his pocket. “It’s very nice,” he says. “Do you like bats?”

“Well,” she says, “I think they’re cute, but that’s all. I’d rather not work with them.”

“Are you saying that you gave me a false business card?”

“You can put anything on a business card,” Beatrice says brightly, looking up at him. “Do you still have those ones that say you’re an admiral in the French navy?”

Lemony looks shocked, then embarrassed, and then takes an incriminating crunch out of his cone. He doesn’t answer.

Beatrice’s throat sticks a little when she swallows her ice cream. She ducks her head, her shoulders bunching up, and scrapes at the bottom of her cup with her spoon. He’s just a quiet person, that’s all, she tells herself, and she’d thought that before. That he doesn’t have anything else to say is just because—just because he doesn’t have anything else to say. That’s fine. They have more important things to talk about than bats and business cards.

She waits until they’ve both finished their ice cream and points out a bench for them to sit down on. She even makes sure it’s out of the way, under a tree, reasonably shady and away from prying eyes, if that’ll make him feel better. Lemony hesitates for a few seconds before he agrees, and they sit down. Beatrice’s legs dangle off the edge, and she holds her hands tight in her lap and reminds herself again not to swing her legs.

“You said you didn’t know where Violet and Klaus and Sunny were,” Beatrice says, leaning towards him, “in your research. That you didn’t know what happened to them after—” Her voice catches. “—after we, we left the island. But that was years and years ago. You have to know now.”

Lemony looks at her, and this close, Beatrice can see the lines around his eyes, etched into his face. They only seem to deepen the longer they look at each other. He folds his hands together, just like hers, and Beatrice bites down on the inside of her lip, her toes wiggling in her shoes.

“No, Beatrice,” he says. “I do not know where the Baudelaires are.”

Some of the air disappears from her lungs, and she gapes at him. “Well—then can you help me find them?”

Lemony sighs. “I have looked,” he says slowly, “but my associates and I have found very little. I do not know if—”

“But you have to know!” Beatrice exclaims. The corners of her eyes start to burn, and she can feel a sharp sting tightening her throat, because he was supposed to know, she was so certain, and he had to be too, so why? “You have to, you’re the only person I’ve got left, and I came all this way to find you, and you—you—” Everything comes tumbling out of her, everything she’s been pushing aside and burying down inside her since the shipwreck, every cruel thought and punch to the gut, every second spent waiting. She’s never talked this much in her whole life, and now she can’t stop, even with Lemony looking at her with wide, broken eyes.

“You left me all alone out there!” Beatrice shouts, her voice cracking. “I followed you for two years, all by myself, and I wrote you letters, and I followed you into the hills, and I stole office space to be close to you, and I did everything I could to find you, and you didn’t do anything!”

She wants to be angry. She wants so much to be angry, to keep yelling, to hurt him, but now she can’t stop crying. “I thought you h-hated me,” she sobs, rubbing at her eyes, tears sticking to her fingers and her cheeks. “I th-thought you never wanted to see me, ever. I thought—I thought—”

Something soft brushes against her wrist, and she lowers her hands and finds Lemony, offering her a handkerchief. “I did not, and I do not hate you,” he murmurs firmly, for a man as heartbroken as he looks. “I could never.”

Beatrice takes the handkerchief and wipes at her eyes. It doesn’t do much in the way of stopping her tears.

“This is an awful thing to say,” Lemony begins quietly, “but the horrible truth is that I did not know if it was you. I did not know if you were—someone else.”

Beatrice swallows thickly, curling her fingers around the handkerchief, clutching it in her lap. She knows what he means and it’s like a dull knife twisting inside her.

“And I know you are not her,” Lemony continues, “or my sister—although you do look remarkably like her—or an old villainess intent on exacting a stiletto-heeled revenge after all these years, or a morally grey woman for whom I still feel a great deal of sadness and guilt. I wondered, though. I think even the most rational mind will wonder in the depths of loss, even when it knows better. It is a wound that does not want to heal, or at least one that I believed could not. When I did know it was you, which I assure you was only within the last year, I—I did not know if I could help you.”

“Why not?” Beatrice asks, sniffling. She chances a look up at him, out of the corner of her eye, and catches a quick, haunted look passing over his face. He stays quiet for a little longer, as if figuring out the right words.

“I was afraid,” he whispers. “It is no excuse for what I did to you, but it is a reason. When I was a little older than you, I made a considerable amount of promises, few of which I managed to keep, and I told myself that fear didn’t matter, which was an admirable if incredibly incorrect stance to take at the time. And since then, very few things have gone right. I lost my family, my friends, the loves of my life, and everything I had, because of that fear. You can have the best of intentions, and still doubt, and still worry, and only realize much later that all you’ve ever done was wrong. I once said that people do difficult things for more or less noble reasons—but it is truly so much harder than that.”

Beatrice lets the words sink in. She thought she knew what it was like to struggle with a decision, to do something villainous to be noble. She thought she understood her uncle and her family—all of it—after everything she’d read, after Klaus saying that it took a severe lack of moral stamina to commit murder, after Sunny suggested it and the fire regardless, after Violet worried about Hal’s keys and disguising her and her siblings and all the other tricky things Beatrice remembers her worrying about.

He looks like Violet, Beatrice realizes suddenly. Not really his facial features, but his expression, just like when Violet told her the volunteers were noble enough. He looks as lost and worried about the consequences as Violet did that day. She feels that hole in her stomach again, that gaping uncertainty—that fear. Beatrice thinks of avoiding the lobby where the woman grabbed her ankle, lying to Marguerite in the hills, covering up her doubts with a vehement optimism. She thinks of every time she read about Lemony’s fear and all the things she didn’t understand until this second, all the things she still doesn’t understand, because there is still so much, so many secrets she could drown in, trying to find them all by herself.

“I put you in a great amount of danger by not stepping in,” Lemony says. He looks at her straight on, his eyes filled with tears. “I did to you the same thing for which I despised so many people, people I too was supposed to trust, because of my cowardice. I cannot apologize to you enough, and you do not have to accept it, Beatrice. I would not blame you if you didn’t.”

Beatrice sniffles again, her mouth wobbling, and watches him for a moment longer. “I don’t know,” she says carefully. She doesn’t like saying it, but it’s true and she has to say it. She takes a breath. “I don’t know.”

They sit in silence on the bench for some time. Lemony wipes his eyes at some point with the back of his hand, and Beatrice holds his handkerchief back up to him, but he shakes his head with a small, trembling smile and tells her to keep it. Beatrice runs her thumb over the handkerchief, each individual stitch along the hem, the afternoon breeze drying her face. She thinks, almost impossibly, that she feels a little less lonely. Not quite not alone, but just not as lonely.

“Although my associates and I have found very little,” Lemony says, “that isn’t to say that there is nothing to find. If you would like, I would like to help you find the Baudelaires.”

Beatrice’s head shoots up, her eyes wide. “Really?”

“Really. We can hope for the best, at least.”

“I’m good at that,” Beatrice says. “I—it can’t be impossible. Everyone thought finding you was impossible. But you’re here.” And he is, isn’t he? Despite his previous absences, here he is. It doesn’t fix everything, not immediately. But it can be enough for right now. Here he is. Here they are.

ending notes: 

i went into this fanfic with a pretty clear idea of where it was going to go, and then realized i’d need to pull out the beatrice letters so i could put them in this, and then did a lot of screaming along the lines of ‘i need to put a yak in this??????????????????????????????’ and ‘good job danhan you shot a hole through my characterization AND my timeline.’ so this vibes with maybe like, 85% of the beatrice letters. i did what i could. (and then this fic gave me so much trouble when i was trying to edit it. like, so much trouble. i only hope this all like, reads okay.)

but once i thought of ‘quiet lil child knows really so little about the world and has been through so much that she adamantly and somewhat optimistically clings to what she does know and that is challenged over time,’ i was reluctant to stop writing that. babybea is definitely her own person but she’s also definitely her mother’s daughter, so that girl is gonna be pretty tightly wound up and trying her best to hide it. i didn’t really buy her constant worry that lemony wasn’t who she wanted him to be while she was writing to him. because she does still have that bright but firm optimism of her father!! and i didn’t want babybea to be as rooted in (or as dependent on) vfd as her predecessors because she has to be the character to break that cycle. she has way more important problems than unattainable worldly nobility….and training bats.

[darling-i-read-it]

Lunch

Indiana Jones x reader, Catcher Block x reader

Word Count: 1.4k

Warnings: none I don’t think!

Author’s Note: So galaxy brain is probably the only way to describe @milleniumxhan today and I just made up some situation where this would happen (before Down With Love and like post last crusade) and I just LOVE IT! The concept! I didn’t have the reader end up with either but the CONCEPT! Ugh I’d love to do this with a different prompt in the future, maybe where the reader ends up with someone or something? Idk i just love this

Requested: by @milleniumxhan n, Oki I just had a random thought and ik the timelines don't exactly add up but like it'd be so cool if u could do and Indiana Jones x reader x Catcher Block. Like smthg with ewan McGregor and harrison ford in vintage is so hot. Idk abt the plot tho. If I think of something I'll msg u.

Summary: the request!

Genre: idk bro

(not my gif)

You sat Indiana’s desk and flipping through the papers and letters that he had scattered around. You wondered briefly how the hell he even was able to grade papers when he was on expeditions all the time. The few times you went with him you never saw him settle enough to grab his bag and grade anything. Then again, you had slept most of the flights which may explain it.

“Can you double check this?” he asked, moving away from the chalkboard. School had ended about an hour ago and he had yet to leave so as the honorable best friend you were, you stayed back to give him some company. You taught at one of the buildings across the street.

You were about to put the letters down when you came across a letter from a journalist. Indiana got those all the time, people always wanting to hear about his adventures. You didn’t blame them. You often blamed him for never taking a chance on any of the journalists. Some of them would write him a piece that might get him more recognition for his findings which you thought he deserved.

The letter was carefully typed out, the typewriter ink and spacing pristine. You raised an eyebrow and skimmed it briefly.

“Y/N?” He turned to look at you reading over the paper and you held up a finger, mouthing some words here and there. You saw it was signed by Catcher Block and nearly combusted. Catcher Block wanted to interview your best friend? If that wasn’t a dream come true you didn’t know what was.

“Catcher Block wants to interview you Indy!” you told him excitedly and he raised an eyebrow, walking over to see what you were looking out. You had taken your legs off of his desk and on the ground to steady yourself from being too excited.

“Catcher who?” he asked, looking over the words. He got those kinds of letters all the time. Commending him for being such a great archeologist and such and that they wanted to interview him. There was never any surprises. The only surprise here is that you seemed to know who this was.

“Catcher Block! New York City journalist.”

“You’ve read some of his stuff?” Indy asked and you shrugged.

“Sure. He’s really hot. Can you accept this one? For me!” you pleaded. Indiana was hesitant. Especially since you seemed to be attracted to Catcher Block. You and Indy had been friends and colleagues for years and because of his fear of commitment he had never tried to make a move, even when he wanted to. He enjoyed you and your friendship. He didn’t want to ruin that. You were also a few years younger than him which also was an easy excuse for him to not want to start a relationship with you. But you had never really talked about your dating life with him. There was never a need to. He couldn’t help but feel a pang of jealousy.

“No. Come check my work,” he stated simply, throwing the paper aside and walking back to the white board. You scoffed and took the paper, dialing the number on the bottom in Indiana's phone on his desk. He should have known.

“Hello?” A man picked up on the other end and you smiled.

“Hi, is this Catcher Block?” you asked professionally. Indy gave you a look and you stuck your tongue out at him. You could almost feel the smugness on the other end of the phone.

“Yes ma’am. Who is this?”

“I’m calling on behalf of Indiana Jones who would like to accept your invitation for an interview. When can you fly down?” There was a brief scuffling on the other end and then Catcher was back.

“Is tomorrow alright miss?” he asked. You nodded, giving Indy an innocent smile.

“Yes tomorrow will be perfect.” You spewed some stuff about where and when to meet him and then hung up, smiling.

Tomorrow came quickly and Indiana made you promise that you would come to dinner as well at some fancy restaurant. He didn’t want to be left alone with some stringy journalist and he was determined to prove to you that you didn’t need any Catcher Block in your life.

Indiana came to pick you up at eight and was amazed at your outfit choice. You had really made yourself up for dinner. He wasn’t sure if he should be jealous or flattered but he wasted no time in playfully flirting with you on the way to dinner.

And then you saw Catcher Block and Indiana cursed aloud, not that you noticed.

“Hi! I’m Catcher Block, I am so glad you’ve allowed me to do this Mr.Jones. And you must be Mrs.Jones?” he asked. Indiana almost confirmed that but you just dismissed him with a wave of your hand and then the two of you shook Catchers hand.

“Just a friend. I spoke to you on the phone actually! I’m Y/N Y/L/N,” you clarified. He raised an eyebrow and as he shook your hand briefly brushed your left hand ring finger, making note that there was no ring there.

“Oh well in that case,” he said with a charming smile and kissed your hand. You blushed and cleared your throat, retreating behind Indiana with a small smile at Catcher.

The dinner actually went okay for the most part. You had gotten so used to Indiana flirting with you that a new form of attraction from someone else threw you off bad and you had trouble standing your ground. Eventually however, you did get there. You were able to add to what Indy was saying and go into more detail because he obviously was not a fan of talking to Catch. You had fun, hanging out with Indiana and Catcher.

You left that night and the next day Indy stopped by your classroom to see how you felt about the interview/dinner.

“Do you think we could go for another expedition then? I am exhausted of being here,” you complained. Indy sat on one of the students desks and laughed.

“I’m getting a little old for that don’t you think?” he teased and you rolled your eyes.

“You’re not that o-” You were cut off by the phone ringing. You raised an eyebrow and picked it up. It was unusual to get a call this late in the school day on your school phone.

“Hi, is this Y/N?” You smiled and your eyes went wide. Indy knew who it was.

“Yes it is. Catcher?” You twirled the phone cord with your finger and Indiana scaled the space between you two in three large strides so that he could hear what you were saying into the phone better.

“Yes ma’am. Listen I had fun with you last night and was wondering if you wanted to get lunch tomorrow before I left town,” he asked. You smiled to yourself and Indiana shook his head.

“No lunch,” he told you and you hit his arm.

“Lunch would be perfect!”

Ewan: @daphne-fandom-writing , @satanslov3r @records-and-stardust @broodybats

[ugly-crying-over-bucky-barnes]

Roguish Women Part 11

Summary: Kate Rosseau is an American who fled to Paris to escape her past life. Now she's dancing and playing the part of a courtesan at the Moulin Rouge. There she meets Tommy Shelby who thinks she can be useful in expanding his empire. But has he been blinded?

Part 10: Kate receives a shocking letter, the Garrison is reopened. 

             “Hello, Lizzie.” Kate tugged off her gloves and hat as she walked into the office.

            The pretty brunette looked up from the typewriter. “You’ve been gone for a few days.” She noted.

            “Yes, well, Tommy showed up to my flat in the middle of the night to take me on a four-day cruise.” She snorted. “Unfortunately, it was in a canal and the destination was London.”

            Lizzie smiled and handed her a few envelopes. “Well, these came for you while you were gone.”

            While working at the office together, the two women had struck up a bit of a friendship. Both being working women, former and present, they had a deeper understanding of each other. But Kate didn’t trust her. She’d learned from her time with Grace. A nice woman who was willing to listen to her talk wasn’t someone to automatically be trusted. It was something Kate realized she might’ve learned a bit too late. After all, she’d learned not to trust men a long time ago. She should’ve realized women could be just as dangerous. She wasn’t the only one with secrets.

            “Thank you.” Kate took the small pile of mail and began opening and sorting through them by Lizzie’s desk. “How’s your class going?”

            “Good.” The other woman perked up. She loved talking about the typing class she was taking and Kate loved seeing the pride in her eyes. Someone who had, for so long, known nothing but working the streets of Birmingham. Now she was educating herself, looking toward a brighter future. “I’m learning shorthand.”       

            “Is that difficult? I don’t know much about it but I…” Kate’s voice trailed off as she skimmed through one of the letters.

            Lizzie’s brow creased. “Everything alright?” She asked when the conversation abruptly stopped.

            “Yes, I’m sorry, I just need to-well I-” She looked around the room as if it were spinning. “I’m going to read this in Tommy’s office.” She excused herself quickly and shut the door behind her for some privacy. Setting the other letters aside, she read through what had stopped her in her tracks. It was written in French and the handwriting was hurried but not careless.

            Dear Kate,

            I hope this finds you. I am in fear of your life. A man came to the cabaret last night with your picture. He wanted to know who smuggled you out of France and into Britain.

            No one said much to him but he threatened our lives. All of his men had guns. Gabrielle felt she had no choice. She told him about the Peaky Blinders.

            I think he is coming after you and I do not think he has good intentions.

            It was dated and signed by a woman who danced with Kate at the Moulin Rouge.

            She felt beyond sick to her stomach trying to process what was happening. It was one thing to get a vague letter from Santo. But this letter changed everything.

            Kate jumped when the doors to the office opened suddenly.

            Tommy stood in the entryway with a frown. “What are you doing in here?”

            “I-I was reading a letter.” She held it out to him. “Tommy, Santo is in France, he was asking about me and about you.”

            He took the letter but realized quickly it was no use to him. “I don’t speak French.” He replied.

            “Well, I’m telling you.” She followed him to his desk. “I’m telling you that he’s tracking me down.”

            “He already knew where you lived.” He pointed out. “Why is this different?”

            His lack of concern was aggravating to Kate. “Because he’s tracing my trail. He threatened people, he’s trying to make anyone who helped me pay!” She snapped. “And eventually he’s going to find his way here and do the same to you.”

            Despite having the shit kicked out him only days before, Tommy didn’t appear too perturbed. “Let him come.”

            “Let him come.” She threw her hands up in disbelief. “Are you fucking serious? Tommy, you don’t understand-”

            “I need to write a letter.” Tommy gestured to the door with a dismissive hand.

            Kate wrinkled her nose in distaste. “Fine, don’t say I didn’t warn you though.” She snarled and left with a huff.

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~

            Lizzie didn’t want to go to the reopening of the Garrison alone and she made it very clear to Kate. She was so relentless, in fact, that she showed up to Kate’s flat to convince her to go.

            “It’ll be fun, we’ll have fun!” Lizzie promised as she pushed her way into the flat, shooing Kate upstairs to get ready.

            “I’m sorry, but that pub is an open target and I…” Kate didn’t want to get too far into the details, the trust still wasn’t there with her newfound work friend.

            “Tommy’s dealt with it all,” Lizzie assured her. “Come on, go and change, I don’t want to miss anything!” She exclaimed. “And I’m not leaving without you.”

            Kate sighed and chuckled. “Alright, just for a couple of drinks.” She prefaced before heading into her room to don a more appropriate dress.

        ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

            She stuck to her guns and nursed the same gin for quite some time before accepting a second one. By then the celebration was in full swing and had become quite rowdy. Even though the Garrison had been renovated into a gilded palace, it still held the same wild Brummies. A new coat of paint, few embellishments, and sparkling lights couldn’t change the true nature of something. Kate knew that all too well.

            Kate hadn’t noticed Tommy come in until she saw him speaking with Arthur behind the bar. Their eyes met and he finished speaking into Arthur’s ear. He nodded to her and pointed to one of the back rooms.

            “I’ll be back,” Kate told Lizzie, picking up her drink to bring with her. She shimmied through the thick crowd to where Tommy was headed.

            He let her inside and closed the door behind her.

            “I didn’t think you had anything else to say to me after this morning,” Kate mumbled but let him pull out a chair for her.

            Tommy didn’t respond, he just pulled out a box of matches and an envelope. “Give it here, then.”

            “Give what?”

            “The letter.”

            “Tommy, this is serious and you should-”

            He pinched the envelope between his thumb and forefinger. “This is from Grace. From America. New York.

            “I didn’t know you two were still talking.” Kate looked a bit perplexed. She assumed men like Tommy, when scorned or betrayed, cut ties with the party involved. But love was love.

            “This is all I have.” He responded and struck up a match.

            Catching his drift, she grabbed his arm. “You’re not even going to open it?”

            “No.” He allowed the small flame to touch the corner of the cream-colored envelope. The fire licking up the length, encasing the dainty handwriting addressed to Tommy and burning the unread letter.

            “And you’ll never wonder?” She asked in disbelief.

            “There are things you need to close the door on, Kate.” He replied. “Before you don’t have control over it.”

            “That’s the key with you, Thomas. Control.”

            “The letter?”

            Pursing her lips, Kate produced the letter from her purse. She’d been holding onto it all day, carrying it around like a ten-pound burden. “I know what it says though.” She pointed out. “You can’t burn that out.”

            Tommy still set fire to the letter, letting it smolder to ash in the candle holder beside the ashes of Grace’s letter. “That’s what alcohol is for.”

            She snorted and shook her head. “Is that all you brought me in here for?” She asked.

            “What do you know ‘bout horses?” He wondered and discarded the spent match, digging the charred head into the smoking remnants of paper.

            “I know they have four legs and can make a lot of money. Aside from that, I think I know very little compared to you, gypsy boy.” She replied.

            “Then you’ll stay in London for the time being.” He concluded.

            “Pardon? Who said I was going to London?”

            “We’re confirming the contract with Alfie Solomons. I’ll be sending me men there very soon.”

            She shook her head, not pleased with the idea of trudging all the way back to London. “And? That has nothing to do with me.”

            “I disagree. Mr. Solomons will need your expertise when it comes to the American market.” He withdrew a cigarette and lit another match.

            “That’s what telephones are for,” Kate replied through clenched teeth.

            “Santo knows you’re in Birmingham. Doesn’t know anything about London, does he?”

            She scoffed. “So now you’re worried about that?” She demanded. “Ridiculous, Tommy, absolutely ridiculous. I don’t know what will put the fear of God in you, I really don’t.” Kate slammed back her gin and stood up. But she decided she wasn’t done. She jabbed a finger at him. “You need to realize that there are men out there who are stronger and hold more pull than you.”

            Tommy just shrugged with a nonchalant expression on his face. “Haven’t met one yet.”

            Kate just made a noise of disbelief and left the room muttering something about men’s egos.

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

            “Ya know, when Thomas came in with you, I assumed you were just a whore that he’d brought for the fun of it. Thought he might get off on something like that.”

            Kate raised an eyebrow in amusement at the Jewish man across the desk from her. She had arrived in London that morning with Tommy and the drove of men who were forming the brigade. Unlike last time, Alfie was there to meet them, kindly escorting Kate arm in arm to the office. Almost like they were a gentleman and lady, not a known gangster and former prostitute.  

            She’d given Tommy a smug look over her shoulder because of Alfie’s treatment. He simply looked amused with a head shake.

            While Tommy was wrangling his men together, Kate sat down with Alfie in his office.

            “He doesn’t have much of a heart left.” She replied with a tight smile. “But I appreciate it.”

            “Nah, weren’t sayin’ you look like a whore. Not meant to be an insult.” Alfie waved the excuse with a hand.

            “Well,” Kate tilted her head to the side. “I’ve worn many hats, Mr. Solomons. But I never preferred the term, whore. I always liked something a bit more refined.”

            He laughed good-naturedly. “You’ll make good company in business, Miss Rosseau. Tommy is a pain in the arse, ain’t he? So, fucking serious, yeah, never takes a joke.”

            “He has his moments. I think he cares about his people though.” She admitted.

            “Feh.” Alfie rolled his eyes and handed her the contract drawn up after he’d signed it. In addition, he gave her a list of names and addresses. “Well, I’ve got to go meet the rabble. Like you to look over me current list of docks and people willing to smuggle stuff in. Add anything you’d like, ifya know any that are utter shit, just cross ‘em out. Don’t want to be wasting me time and money.”

            “I can do that.” Kate nodded.

            “Cyril’ll keep ya company. Be back in a mo’.”

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

            After reviewing Alfie’s list of contacts and giving Cyril a good belly rub, Kate waited. And waited. And waited.

            Bored and restless, she stepped out of the office and poked around a bit, looking for Alfie or Tommy. Some of Alfie’s men gave her curious looks but didn’t say anything. Probably on orders rather than their own will.

            Kate made her way downstairs to the cellar where she heard some talking. She recognized Tommy’s voice and followed it to a larger room where men were lined up like a battalion.

            “Haven’t seen any bread.” She heard the quip as she stepped into the room quietly.

            None of the men seemed to notice her, they were all focused on Alfie as he stalked up to the older man who had made the joke. There was a heavy pause before the broad-shouldered gangster raised his cane with a strikingly fast motion and brought it down with untamable fury. Hitting the man right beside the jokester.  

            The crack was unmistakable and the victim was knocked out cold by the sheer force Alfie inflicted on him.

            “He’ll wake up, granted he won’t have any teeth left but he will be a wiser for it,” Alfie spoke with a frightening amount of restraint.

            Kate knew that the scariest men were those who could control their anger. Those who lost control were weaker. They were violent and strong, yes, but a man without control was nothing. That’s why Tommy and Alfie were terrifying.

            They’d controlled and fostered their anger. They had made acquaintances with their rage. Death was their friend.

            “And the last thing he will remember is your funny little joke, won’t he?” Another long pause drew out. “Right!” Alfie shouted.

            Kate did her best not to flinch, even though the sudden loud yell came seemingly out of nowhere. She wanted to show the men there that while they were probably terrified of Alfie, she sure as hell wasn’t. Mostly because she’d gotten on his good side early on. That was the trick, after all. Granted, she knew it was easier for women to do so, but it was still crucial.

            “There are fucking rules here for a fucking reason. ‘N quite simply they have to be obeyed. Rule number one, the distinction between bread and rum is not discussed.” Alfie paced before the front line of men, disregarding the unconscious one still on the floor. “Number two, anything, right, that your superior officers says to you or any of your other fucking superior officers say to you, is not discussed!” His voice became a bit hoarse from shouting so loudly but it was effective. He turned and finally noticed Kate in the doorway. “Ah, yes, good reminder.” The volume of his voice lowered a bit as he pointed at her. “This young woman will be in and out of the bakery as she pleases. As far as I see it, she’s about ten ranks above you fucking pathetic numbskulls, yeah? So that means, yeah, she comes before you and you will treat her with respect. And I don’t care if she’s got nothing on, you will not talk to her, about her, you will not fucking look at her. If I hear you lot speaking a fucking word ‘bout her, I’ll rip your tongue out and feed it to me dog!”

            The threat was enough to last because suddenly none of the men were looking anywhere near where Kate was standing.

            “That goes for Jewish women as well. For the rest of your fucking miserable lives, you don’t go anywhere near Jewish women. They are off the menu for you fuckers.” He nodded and cleared his throat. “I think that’s fair.”

            Kate held her chin a little higher. After being under the heel of men during her stint in France, it felt good to be back in control. Back to the woman that wasn’t called derogatory names or groped or grabbed. The woman who’s worth wasn’t measured was by her beauty. Back to the woman she was in the States. Back to being a dangerous woman. Roguish, even.  

Permanent Tag: (God I’m spamming you guys so much, I really apologize) @papa-geralt-of-cirilla​ @giftofdreams​ @biba3434​ @kimmietea​

Masterlist

[maiaisbia]

not alone

Alec comes home to find Magnus taking care Catarina. 

A look at how Alec finds himself fitting in Magnus' family.

Gen | Words: 2139 | ao3 

Alec was exhausted. It had been a long day of going through old, dusty paperwork. His eyes felt dry and he had probably breathed in more dust that was strictly healthy. Such were the joys and excitements of being Inquisitor at times. Some of the ancient handwriting made Alec very glad for the invention of typewriters and computers as he was spending the month expunging unjust downworlder criminal records. Alec felt good about the work, but right now what he really needed was a mug of tea and go to sleep.

He slipped into the loft, taking off his coat and toeing off his boots, listening for Magnus. He wasn't sure if there might still be a client meeting or a visiting dignitary, even though it was past dinner time. His husband kept all sorts of company in his role of making sure the downworld stayed connected and safe. If Alec was out late with his work, Magnus often wouldn’t stop his own.

Alec heard soft voices, and followed them to his and Magnus' bedroom. Feeling his eyebrows rise, Alec gently pushed the door open, peeking around it.

Magnus and Catarina were sitting against the headboard, both dressed in their pajamas, blankets around their shoulders, mugs cupped in hands. Alec smiled at the sight, then caught that Catarina had tears on her cheeks. Moving fully into the room, Alec whispered, "Hey."

Magnus and Catarina both looked up at him, Catarina hastily wiping her cheeks. Alec moved closer, and Magnus held up a hand. "You can only enter the sanctuary if you are wearing pajamas."

Alec tried not to look incredulous, considering it was his bed, but he didn't want Catarina to feel like she was intruding. It was clear she wasn’t in a place to be alone. He must have not been entirely successful because Catarina chuckled, "Sorry to impose."

"Never, you're always welcome," Alec responded, hoping she heard the truth in those words. "I'm going to shower." He went and gathered some sweatpants and a soft shirt that once had been Magnus'.

When he returned, Magnus and Catarina were where he left them, curled towards each other. Catarina was nodding to whatever Magnus was saying, but Alec didn't think she believed him. Her lips were pinched, eyes distant and glassy.

Alec moved and sat on her other side. In the over two years Alec had been married to Magnus, he'd become to view Catarina as something of a sister. And if Izzy was crying, Alec would do whatever he could to cheer her up. Leaning his shoulder against her own he asked, "What happened?"

Magnus looked over at him, eyes sad. Alec reached out to him, taking his hand and pressing a quick kiss to his knuckles. Holding Alec's hand tight, Magnus explained, "Cat lost one of her patients today."

Alec turned to looked at Catarina, who nodded. "He wasn't any older than Madzie."

Alec's heart ached, feeling heavy in his chest. He could only imagine what that was like. And Catarina, she had no doubt seen many of her patients not make. But she was so caring, always open and empathetic, much like Magnus. To have seen so much and still care so deeply...

"It's hitting a little harder because Ragnor would usually join Magnus in keeping me company," Catarina whispered, voice rough.

Alec nodded, resting a hand on Catarina's back. When she leaned into his touch, he began to rub soothing circles. He then remembered something he found while he was elbows deep in records. Standing, he crossed to where he'd left his phone, snagging a blanket off a chair so that he could wrap it around himself. He settled back by Catarina, pulling up his phone camera roll. Opening his newest, he held it for Catarina and Magnus to read.

"That's Ragnor's handwriting," Magnus said, leaning closer.

"He apparently insisted on adding a note to one of his Clave Violation records," Alec said, letting Catarina hold the phone so she could read it. "I can only guess as to the “fugitives” he was harboring..."

"To Whom it May Concern," Catarina read, a smile growing on her face. "I suggest you review an encyclopedia entry for 'fugitives.' On the day in question, I was hosting tea for a couple of close friends. One might be so bold to call them my family. When your Shadowhunters came to my door to consult me in the capacity as High Warlock, my friends decided to leave. This was not because they were running away because of any crime (except maybe ones of fashion, but who am I to judge), but rather because your Shadowhunters are arseholes and they didn’t want to talk to them. I would like to note this as an official complaint, and also note that I have not been paid for my latest ward repair. What is done can be easily undone, so I expect payment promptly. Sincerely, Ragnor Fell, High Warlock of London."

"They kept this?" Magnus asked, looking over at Alec.

"Apparently," Alec shrugged. "I expunged all his crimes listed, as well as what I could find of yours Catarina."

"I wish I’d left such letters," Catarina shook her head with a chuckle, passing the phone back.

"What about my records?" Magnus leaned forward. He passed a tea cup to Alec, fresh tea in it, warm and filled with honey.

"I'm not allowed to work with your records," Alec admitted with a huff. "Due to something about a conflict of interest... You wouldn't know anything about that?"

"I’ll have to think about it," Magnus tapped his chin, and Catarina gave him a shove.

"You’re both disgusting," she complained, though she finally had a smile.

"Where is Madzie?" Alec asked. It was too early for the little one to have been put to bed, so she probably wasn’t napping in the guest room.

"Raphael was watching her today," Catarina said, finishing her own tea. Alec reached to place the mug on a bedside table, but she merely vanished it back to the kitchen. "I asked him to take care of her a little longer."

"He's a good boy," Magnus smiled, and Alec rolled his eyes. Raphael didn't like Alec that much, and seemed to accept him only as long as he made Magnus happy. As Alec planned to do that forever, he assumed he would be able to win Raphael over at some point in the next centuries.

"How's Madzie's spell work?" Alec asked, sipping his tea. It was perfect, minty and sweet and soothing his throat after all the dust.

"She's getting better at summoning by leaps and bounds! She really takes to magic theory even though she’s so young." Catarina turned her back Magnus so she was facing Alec. Magnus began to massage her shoulders.

Alec listened as Catarina went into detail about the spells Madzie had learned, and then as Catarina and Magnus talked about what she should learn next for her potion work. She was getting old enough that she could do most of the potion work on her own, though she still needed a lot of supervision. Alec was starting to understand a little bit of the craft just from listening and watching Magnus, but the theories Catarina and Magnus went into now were far over his head. He loved to listen though, loved to getting to be apart of this.

They all slowly grew sleepier, and Alec was glad to see Catarina seemed to be feeling much better. She was smiling and her tears had dried. At some point Alec switched sides of the bed, but he needed to cuddle his husband for a certain amount of time each day. Legally. He should submit a law about it. Wrapping his arms around Magnus waist, he relaxed.

Alec drifted off to Catarina and Magnus talking about fashion choices made in the '70s. Alec assumed the 1970s, and tried to make a note to himself to ask Catarina for pictures if she had them. She was truly the best source of embarrassing Magnus stories.

...

Alec woke up a couple hours later, body tensed as he sat up. He was alert, having heard the sound of the front door opening and shoes in the entryway. Alec knew that no one but their family could make it through the wards. Looking down at Magnus, who was now sleeping in the center of the bed, Alec knew he would be awake if anything tampered with the wards. Catarina was curled on Magnus' usual side, hair scarf bright in the moonlight coming in through the window.

Still, Alec felt his body tense once more. But then he recognized the little feet running towards the door to the bedroom. It was still cracked and Madzie plowed right in. She paused to take stock of the bed, before grinning wider and taking a running leap to get on.

"Alec!" she called seeing him awake and crawling over Magnus to get to him.

Magnus groaned as a small elbow probably dug into his spleen. Alec scooped Madzie up and settled her on his lap.

"Sweet pea?" Magnus murmured, cat eyes opening and the pupils going wide to see in the dark. Alec had to stop a laugh. Apparently Magnus could recognize his niece just by her internal organ poking elbows.

"Hi Magnus!" Madzie said. She was very squirmy, which Alec knew meant she was overtired and also probably had too much sugar.

"What the he--- heck is going on here?" Raphael asked. Alec wondered when it had become rather normal to have a vampire just wander into his house. Then again, he wasn't questioning the three warlocks now piled into his bed. It was just how life went. He ducked his head so Raphael wouldn’t see his smile.

"Shhh!" Madzie said, much too loudly to be of much help. "Mommy is sleeping!"

"Not anymore," Catarina grumbled but moved to sit up. She reached over and Alec passed Madzie to her. Catarina changed her daughter into pajamas with a wave of her fingers, and when laid back down. Madzie cuddled close, maybe sensing a bit of the melancholy that lingered around Catarina.

"I was concerned when you didn't contact me as to where I should bring her," Raphael said to Catarina, and he genuinely sounded worried. Raphael cared more than he let on, Alec knew, and that was how Alec was going to get him. He and Raphael would be friends, no matter what the vampire thought.

"Sorry my dear," Catarina said, reaching a hand out. Raphael moved closer, and gently took it. "Thank you so much for taking care of her."

"Whenever you need," Raphael promised.

Alec watched all this, then glanced down to see Magnus was looking up at him. Alec felt himself blush and was glad for the darkness. Magnus was looking at Alec that way he did sometimes, like he couldn't believe Alec was there, was real. Alec decided there was only one thing to do when Magnus looked at him like this- softly and in love. And that was to hold him tight, so he couldn't deny that Alec was right there. That they were in all this together. Laying back down. Magnus’ arms went around his waist and Alec pressed a kiss to his cheek.

"Catarina, they're being disgusting and domestic again," Raphael said, and it was as close his drawling voice would go to a whine.

"You're in our bedroom," Alec grumbled, tucking his face into Magnus shoulder. The familiar smell of sandalwood and the mint from the tea filled his senses. Magnus rested his chin on Alec's hair.

"He's got a point," Magnus said, a warm chuckle rippling through his body. Alec smiled against his neck.

"You're the one who seems to have invited Catarina for a sleepover," Raphael said. The bed dipped and Alec didn't look up to see why. He was warm and sleepy and wrapped in his husband's arms.

The bed shuttered a bit and Alec guessed someone had magicked a little bigger as their new companion joined. Alec found himself not particularly concerned. He knew this wasn’t the first time something like this happened. What was new was Madzie and himself. Alec knew that Magnus had lived closely with both Catarina and Raphael, and with Ragnor, and had probably fallen asleep in a puppy pile with them. They were family after all, and immortality would be very lonely without those to share it with.

Alec let himself relax as Magnus complained Raphael was going to hog the blanket and Catarina told Magnus to just make the comforter bigger. Madzie shushed them all again, which caused everyone to chuckled. Alec fell asleep soon after that, feeling safe, feeling his guard down. They were part of his family now, and he was honored to be a part of theirs.

[hispeculiartreasure]

All We’ve Got is Time - Chapter Four | B.B.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

AU: If They’d Survived/Post-War/Window Washer!Bucky Barnes

Rating: Teen

Word count: 3,371

Chapter 4/24

Warnings: Very brief, yet strong language

AN: Let me just say that I am profoundly grateful for the love this series is getting! I am enjoying your comments and theories and am so flattered by your praise. I didn’t get a chance to respond to every comment like I usually do - my car accident took care of that. I’ve had a hard time focusing and coping after that traumatic day so I hope everything in this chapter is in order. Love you all so dearly. Come scream at me when you’re done. 💖

Chapter Three

‘All We’ve Got is Time’ Masterlist

Exiting the elevator the next morning you fumble through your handbag, trying to find the lipstick you didn’t have time to put on before you left.

Of all mornings for the subway to not be working it had to be today. I’m so late, I’m gonna have to bust my tail before Anderson notices.

“Good morning, Mrs. Flannery,” you say absentmindedly as you approach her desk.

“You’re late. I have-”

“I know, it’s been a hell of a-- excuse me, it’s been a heck of a morning,” you interrupt, head still down, lipstick nowhere to be found.

“Miss-”

“It won’t happen again, I promise.” You rush past her as your mental to-do list only grows longer.

“Ahem.”

There was no denying that was aimed toward you. You come to a halt, slowly turning back to the daunting woman. Peering over her glasses, one hand perched on her hip while the other was stretched out to you, grasping a piece of paper.

“This was left for you yesterday afternoon after you had completed your shift.” You timidly reach for the slip, when Flannery pulls it back at the last moment. “I feel the need to remind you that this is a place of business. Not romance, not courtship, not frivolity. I meant what I said on your first day - beaus are not allowed in this office. This is the only time I will extend grace. Understood?”

Mystified you take the paper, nodding your understanding.

What the hell is she talking about?

Suzy sidles beside you on the walk to your desk before she whisper-shouts, “The note was for her!”

Immediately, six other women leap from their desks and huddle around you talking a mile a minute.

“We were here when he dropped it off!”

“He was so cute!”

“Why do I feel like I’ve seen him in the movies?”

“Maybe he’s a war-hero?”

“He looked familiar,” Connie muses.  

“Who cares! What does it say?” Suzy urges as she pokes your arm.

The huddle falls silent as you open the neatly folded note.

The gaggle of girls around you squeal for a moment before Flannery’s harsh shhhh quiets everyone to whispers.

“How sweet.”

“He’s one of the window washers?!”

“Wait, we have window washers here?”

“I still feel like I know him from somewhere else. . .”

“Well, how do you feel?” Suzy draws the focus back to you.

You bite your lip. “Umm. . . it makes me feel. . . pretty great.”

“Jeeze, for you that may as well be equal to jumping up and down!” One nudges you gently with her elbow. “What are you gonna do?”

“Do? I- I’m not going to do anything. I got a nice note and I appreciate it,” you state, hoping it would bring an end to all the attention surrounding you. It didn’t.

“Oh come on!”

“Have you been flirting? You need to be more tantalizing!”

“You have to find him right now!”

“Show us your moves, we can help!”

Waving your arms for quiet you declare, “I’m already late and if I don’t get to work, I’ll be canned before I get the chance to see him again. Is that what you want?”

Everyone begrudgingly trudges across the office while Suzy lags behind. With a knowing grin she says, “Lemme know if you wanna talk about it. It’s nice to see you smile like that.”

As she leaves you plop down into your desk chair, rereading the note. It’s then that you realize just how much you’ve been smiling the last few minutes and just how fast your heart was beating.

Yeah, I could tell you enjoyed the new look. Why am I blushing all over again?

He came up here to try to talk to me. To actually see me. In person. He faced the wrath of Flannery to get up here and leave this.

He can’t wait to see me? Does he look forward to seeing me as much as I look forward to seeing him? Of course he couldn’t be bothered to sign his actual name. What a tease.

It takes a shout from Anderson’s office to bring you back to reality. Propping the note against your typewriter you read it one more time before grabbing your pencil and notepad.

For the rest of the day you anxiously check the window every few minutes, waiting for the author of your note. Every moment you feel self-conscious, not sure what you should do when he stops on your floor. Is he expecting more to come from this? Do you need to be a little more flirtatious, like some of the girls had mentioned? Should you be making more of an effort? Is that something you even wanted?

But then you see him and the uncertainty fades away. The work day is almost over before he descends to the sixth floor. You make eye contact, check your watch, and tap its face twice. You’re late.

He nods while wiping his brow. His head lolls to the side, eyes closed, tongue sticking out in a comical manner. Slept in.

Shaking your head and tutting softly, you raise an eyebrow.

Both his hands shoot up in a I know, I know. Won’t happen again.

With a short nod, you go back to filing and leave Window Washer to his work.

By the time you turn around, you expect him to be gone. To your pleasant surprise, he seems to be waiting for you. He beckons you to the window. When you get close enough, you notice something written in the suds at the very bottom of the pane. The word doesn’t make sense to you, so you scrunch your eyebrows at him.

He taps himself on the chest several times and mouths “my name”. You look again and it finally clicks. B-U-C-K-Y. You nod your understanding and smile. It isn’t until he points at you that you realize he’s waiting for your name. You press your finger to the glass, waiting for him to mirror your touch. You trace your name on your side, allowing him to spell it on his side. He reads it and grins wide. Nice to meet ya, he mouths.

“Mary! Get in here, take notes.” You turn from the voice, eyes rolling into the back of your head.

Hooking a thumb toward your boss’ office, you sigh deeply. Gotta go.

Bucky held two fingers to his brow and gave you a half-hearted salute. Good luck in there.

------

You are dutifully typing a letter when a pair of shiny Oxford heels appear in your peripheral vision next to your desk.  “You need to go ask that boy on a date.”

Heaving a sigh, you keep your eyes on the task in front of you. “Didn’t we have this discussion yesterday, Suze?”

“Yeah, and you still haven’t wised-up.” Papers rustle on your desk as Suzy props a hip against it.

“On the contrary, I think I’m exercising a lot of wisdom.”

She scoffs, finally drawing your attention away from your paperwork.

“Someone’s a scaredy cat.”

“Suzy.” You fix her with a pointed look.

Pretending to have a sudden interest in her cuticles she mutters, “It’s the only possible explanation.”

“How do we know that note was an invitation? What if he was just saying hi? What if he-”

“Mhmm. Those are the thoughts of someone who is unafraid.”

“How do we even know if he’d want to go on a date with me?” You lean back in your chair, tired of this conversation.

The redhead’s eyebrows shoot up her forehead. “I’m sorry - ‘You looked beautiful’? ‘Can’t wait to see you’? Sorry, doll, but people don’t say that to just anyone. I adore you, but I can definitely wait to see you if it means coming in to work.” She dodges the playful kick you aim in her direction. “All I’m saying is that you weren’t here when he left that note - I was. He was all kinds of antsy and blushing.”

“He works outside, maybe he had a sunburn,” you deadpan.

“You were just talking about how you barely know anyone in the city and you need to meet new people. He’s new people!”

“But I don’t even know if I want a romantic relationship right now.” “Then you’ll tell him that after your first date if you still feel that way. But why shut it down now when it doesn’t even exist yet? Maybe he’s lonely too-” Suzy’s eyes dart behind you and her posture changes. She leans in toward you, feigning interest in the letter you’d abandoned. “Oh yes, those are the addresses I was looking for. Don’t know how they got on your desk. And you needed something from me right?”

You sit stunned by this sudden change of behavior until you see Flannery approaching your desk.

“Uhh-yes. I was wondering what the protocol would be for when. . .” you both watch as the office manager floats into the filing room and shuts the door behind her. You and Suzy relax back into your previous positions. “I never said lonely,” you point out, shoving your defensive instincts down.

Suzy rolls her eyes and with a wave of her manicured hand says “Fine, fine, you’re being adventurous. Does that make you feel better?”

“No.”

“Answer me one last question, Newbie, and I’ll leave you alone.” Raising a brow, you wait for the question. “What’ve you got to lose?”

You weren’t able to answer then, and you still don’t have an answer now.

Under Suzy’s watchful eye, the second your watch reads 12 o’clock you leave your desk and hustle down the stairs, hoping the physical activity would work out some of the anxiety in your chest. It doesn’t.

Turning the corner toward the service entrance you see the window washers gathered outside in a loose group, taking their lunch break. Your heart begins to beat faster when you imagine actually holding a conversation with Bucky. What in the world were you going to say to him?

I really should’ve thought this through a little more.

But then your feet were taking you toward the group and it was too late to turn back now. The clicking of your shoes on pavement draws the attention of each man whose heads simultaneously swing to watch you. You stop a few feet away from them, losing your words.

“Can we help you, miss?” The apparent leader of the window washing crew steps forward. He’s much younger than Bucky, scrawny and tan. He’d be lucky to be 18.

“Um. . .” you scan the faces, not finding the one you’re looking for. “Is Bucky around?”

The leader’s eyes narrow, giving you a too-thorough once-over. “Whaddya want with him? If it has to do with windows, I’m in charge here. Name’s Harrison. Maybe I can help you out.”

You control the urge to fidget under his scrutiny, steeling yourself to squarely match his gaze. “No, there’s something else I need to discuss with him.”

“He had to skip out early today. Something about a family emergency.”

“Oh. I see.” You think for a moment, not enjoying the pack of men watching you like vultures. “Would you let him know I stopped by?” You turn on your heel when Harrison speaks again.

“What’s your name, baby-doll?”

Shutting your eyes you remind yourself to watch your temper. Thinking better of giving your name, you spare a glance over your shoulder. Coldly you reply, “Tell him ‘Sixth Floor’. He’ll know.”

More questions are shouted at you but you keep walking, very familiar with the rakish tone in which they were spoken. You didn’t have time for drooling boys. For a moment you worry that Bucky is cut from the same cloth as them. But something deep in you urges that he’s different.

Unbeknownst to you, when Bucky arrives at work the next day Harrison actually does mention your visit.

“Barnes, some broad came lookin’ for ya at lunchtime yesterday.”

Bucky doesn’t spare a look from his kit he was preparing for the day. “Yeah? What for?”

“She wouldn’t tell us. Seemed kinda stuck-up and snooty. Like she was better than us or something.”

Hitching his kit over his shoulder to head to the roof, Bucky smooths back a stray strand of hair. “I hate to break it to ya, but if she was acting like that I’m sure you deserved it.” As the kid who was technically his supervisor opens his mouth to protest Bucky interjects, “Did she say anything else?”

Unamused, Harrison practically pouts. “She just said ‘sixth floor’ and said you’d get it. Then she left.”

Bucky stills immediately at the mention of you. “Really? She said that?”

“Yup. Was a bombshell too, real date-bait if you catch my drift.”

Eyes closing, Bucky imagines strangling the teenager in front of him rather than actually carrying out the action. “Shut your trap.”

“Wish she’d stop by again, wouldn’t mind an evening of necking with her.” He conspiratorially winks, mistakenly thinking he would go along with the sentiment.

Squaring up with Harrison, Bucky leans in dangerously close and says lowly, “You’d better watch that mouth, kid.”

“What’s the big deal? She’s not your girl or anything is she?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Bucky insists, eyes practically boring through the terrified kid in front of him. “She’s not yours, so don’t be a creep. Girls don’t like creeps, if you haven’t caught onto that yet. And I don’t either.” He leans back, smirking with satisfaction at the deer-in-the-headlights look he was getting. Resting his brush on his shoulder Bucky turns to begin his day.

“Keep your paws off me, Barnes!” Harrison shouts to Bucky’s back.

“I didn’t touch you, Harrison. Maybe you would’ve noticed if you weren’t always on skirt patrol,” Bucky tosses over his shoulder as he begins to climb the fire escape.

As Bucky climbs higher his thoughts turn to you. You’d been looking for him. You’d obviously shut down Harrison and the rest of the boys. Anyone that sassed that kid was a hero in his book.

Maybe his note hadn’t been a total disaster after all. Once he’d gotten into bed that night, he fretted over that dumb piece of paper for hours. He thought of a million things he could’ve said besides the three hastily scribbled lines. A million kinder, wittier, more fitting words for you. You’d been nice enough the next day, playful even. And he’d finally gotten your name - a sweet, suitable name that rolled around in his head for hours. But he couldn’t help feeling like he needed to do more.

He found himself even more excited to get to the sixth floor today, to see you, to have a little hope, to share in a smile. Though that’s not exactly what happens.

------

“Get in here, NOW!”

Anderson’s tone instantly drowns your insides with dread.

You rush to his door, quietly opening it. Anderson’s heels are crossed, kicked up to rest on the edge of his desk. His eyes bore into you, disdain obvious.

“Sir?” you make out much smoother than you feel.

“Do you know what this is?” he flicks a letter across his desk toward you. Quietly picking it up, you silently read its contents.

“The steel mill is turning down our partnership offer? Because they never received paperwork? Sir, I definitely-”

“Read the letterhead,” he bites out. “And then read what you sent out. What do you notice, Doris?” Another letter is flicked in your direction. You bite back a retort about your name.

Holding the letters side-by-side, a pit drops in your stomach. “I copied the address incorrectly.”

Anderson gives you a tight nod, jaw clenched. The room is claustrophobic in silence.

“Sir, I-”

“You cost us thousands of dollars with this idiotic move, because you didn’t proofread your work enough? Because you can’t copy a damn number over?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know how I missed-”

“You missed it because you were careless!” Anderson bangs a fist to his desk, causing you to jump a fraction. He stands up abruptly, stalking over to you. “This job isn’t a fucking joke. You were given a chance because you kicked up a fuss about being let go when our boys came back from war. You want this job? Act like it!” With every word Anderson steps in your direction causing you to match with a step backward. You are in his office’s threshold when he leans in and whispers menacingly, “If you can’t get a damn letter right then you shouldn’t even be here in the first place, Marge. Make sure it doesn’t happen again or you’re gone. Now get out of my office and fix your screw-up!” The door slams in your face.

Hands shaking, you make your way to your desk. Willing the tears not to fall you take a few deep breaths. Elbows rest on the surface, head in your hands, focusing on not falling apart in the middle of the busy office.

You’re tougher than this. A man raising his voice at you is nothing new. You are fine, you made a mistake. Don’t you dare lose your composure, it’ll only make you seem weak.

A tapping on the window directly next to your desk startles you. Bucky is there, looking more concerned than ever. He tilts his head, eyebrows furrowed together. What’s wrong?

The tears spill out at the kindness reflected in his own. You search desperately for a handkerchief before turning back to the window. Dabbing at your wet cheeks furiously, you gesture to Anderson’s office. You blink against the hankie, hoping to catch the makeup before it runs down your entire face. Pointing to yourself you mouth “my fault”. The tears don’t stop for several minutes, but everytime you look up Bucky is sitting at the window, watching you sorrowfully.

Eventually you dry up, puffy eyes meeting Bucky’s. “I’m fine,” you whisper, dropping your gaze to the handkerchief in your lap that you’ve been twisting into knots.

More tapping draws your attention back to Bucky, who promptly flips off Anderson’s closed door. You manage to stutter a laugh out in between your sniffles, feeling a little lighter already.

With an admonishing shake of your head that you don’t mean, you return his smile. Thanks.

You could be imagining it, but Bucky seems hesitant to move on to the next floor. Giving him what you hope is a reassuring thumbs-up you mouth, “I’m okay.”

Looking thoroughly unconvinced he watches you for a few seconds before nodding slowly. He drops out of your sight, though you still stare out the window where he had been.

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

One day passes where you don’t see Bucky at all.

Two days pass. No Bucky.

Three days pass. Zero handsome window washers.

When the end of your day comes and it hits you that he hasn’t made his usual stop you try to ignore the disappointment that prickles your heart.

It takes a while before it dawns on you that since you had started your job Bucky had washed every single window on this side of the building. Which meant he would move onto another side or possibly an entirely different building.

On your walk into work Friday morning, you notice that the window washing crew’s tools are absent from the sidewalk. An unfamiliar emotion has you biting your lip as you approach your desk.

I guess that’s that. We kept missing each other and time just. . .ran out. It’s not a big deal. . . If it’s not a big deal then why am I so sad?

Turning your gaze to the window immediately to your left, you notice a piece of paper in the middle of the pane. You stare for a moment, fairly certain that it hadn’t been there when you left work last night. With a purposeful step you go to the window, a sneaking suspicion in the back of your mind. You find a note written in a familiar hand taped to the outside of the window, the writing facing you so you could read it clear as day.

Chapter Five

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[swansandslayers]

Some fantastic Newtina fics I recommend.

Putting this under read-more since this is gonna be a pretty long list. Some of the fics listed on this post can also be found in previous posts here and here but I thought I would a bigger post for anyone interested. 

Obviously there are a lot of fics out there that I haven’t comes across, so anyone wants to add their own favorite fics/writers, or just to add their own work to this list, feel free to do so. :) And I may make more of these in the future if I have the time/energy.

Hope you guys enjoy reading these as much as I have. :)

Unplanned Beginnings written by cutenewt. Newt has locked himself in the case and hasn’t left for three and a half days. Tina is worried sick and calls his brother for help. Neither of them could have predicted what happens next though.

A Photograph of A Scamander written by cutenewt. Tina’s photographs decorate her and Newt’s new flat. As she gets used to living in England, Tina finds that the Scamander reputation is an odd one. It does not help when Theseus invites himself over for supper one evening.

What Thunderbirds Do written by gnimmish. Newt knows more about the mating rituals of most of his creatures than he does those of actual human beings - though that may not be such a bad thing.

Little Things written by littlemsbookworm. When people ask her “What is it like being married to a famous magizoologist?” she always takes a long time to answer.

Rewrite The Stars  written by cutenewt. In which Newt cares for Tina… although she is most certain that this isn’t necessary.

An American Auror, a British Magizoologist and A Parisian Sewer Monster written by gnimmish. Theseus helps a certain American auror deliver a strange beast to his brother, encounters the distinct and horrifying possibility that his brother has somehow attracted a girlfriend. One shot. Also contains some Theta as well.

Maybe A Little Family written by returntosaturn. AU in which Credence lives and Newt cares for him. Tina visits, and thinks perhaps she could make the visit permanent.

Really As Wonderful As You Seem written by Bellarsam_Chrisjulittle. Tina Goldstein has been living in London with her newly married sister, Queenie, and her husband, Jacob Kowalski, for two months. Newt Scamander is living in London after his book was published five months ago. Both receive an invitation to attend the Midsummer Festival that the Ministry throws. Though both are reluctant, both attend...and their lives are changed forever.  Also contains some Theta and Jaqueenie as well.

Good things happen when you meet strangers written by HufflepuffleMarauder. When Tina and Leta first introduce each other their conversation causes them to reflect back on previous memories with a fresh eye. After all, good things happen when you meet strangers. Also contains some Theta and Jacqueenie as well.

the stars go waltzing written by weatheredlaw. Queenie smiles. “I am happy.” She supposes it’s good that only one Goldstein sister can read minds. Also contains some Jacqueenie as well.

In the Stacks written by Kemara. "Parabolas" - the expansion of this fic - is now in progress! Tina Goldstein's first semester of college isn't going all that well until she meets a fascinating exchange student in the library.

Parabolas written by Kemara. An expansion of "In The Stacks." Tina Goldstein's first semester of college isn't going all that well until she meets a fascinating exchange student in the library. Also contains some Jacqueenie and Theta.

with all the light written by abbyli. Weeks ago, the Minister had come to Theseus with a mission to gather up a team of Aurors to go to Russia and infiltrate an underground group of Grindelwald’s followers. Naturally, Tina had been at the top of the list of candidates. Also contains some Theta and Jacqueenie.

A foggy night in London written by ravenpuff1956. Tina has been informed by a contact, that instead of being in Paris, Credence and the circus are instead in England. Also contains some Jacqueenie.

history and context written by weatheredlaw. Every time he comes back, things get a little bit bigger, a little bit bolder, until it all threatens to spill over at once.

Just This written by gnimmish. Newt and Tina try and fail to get some rest in the aftermath of The Crimes of Grindelwald.

Beneath the Surface written by ArdeaJestin. Both for her and for himself, he has to proceed in gentle touches, observe what she responds to, and ultimately make her understand that seeking the warmth of another body isn’t selfish, just the most irrepressible act of nature there is.

Find Me Where the Wild Things Are written by sakurazawa. 1929, a year and a half after the disaster at Pére Lachaise, and Tina Goldstein is at the end of her options. Haunted by dreams of Queenie, missing Newt, she’s searching for any action that might make a difference. But MACUSA has withdrawn all forces from Europe and refused further involvement in the hunt for Grindelwald, stymying her attempts to find her sister.

One Thing I’m Sure About written by HarmonizingSunsets. A letter arrives for Newt and Tina from Grindelwald. Newt knows they have to face him, but is afraid that nothing will be the same for them after. Confronting him again means risking it all, including the relationship they now have. Tina reassures him.

A Selfish Wandering Tourist written by Eilwen. It's OK to be a little selfish. Newt wanders into a bakery, attends a book-signing, tends to his creatures and meets with Tina to discuss the future of their relationship over sandwiches. Also contains some Jacqueenie.

A Silhouette Against Blue Light written by Eilwen. Outtake from 'A Selfish Wandering Tourist'.

Give Me Shelter, Be My Escape written by Bellarsam_Chrisjulittle. After the traumatic events in Paris, Newt finds Tina at a very low point, trying to escape her guilt and worry. By remembering a kindness she had once done for him, he is able to return the favor - and erase all doubts from her mind about his feelings in the process.

What Tina Gives Newt written by Bellarsam_Chrisjulittle. Takes place right after Newt, Tina and Queenie have said goodbye to Jacob. Everyone is affected with exhaustion, grief and sadness over what has happened and what nearly happened over the past few days. But the healing begins when Tina shows Newt just how selfless and lovely of a giver she is.

As Long As You Follow written by returntosaturn. He draws his rough fingertips over her bare knuckles in a certain kind of wistfulness that makes her hearten but straighten. In a new, sudden wave of sobriety she can see that he is made for these landscapes. His bronze and green and goldenrod are complimentary to the spring palette of the mountains and the old city at its feet.  

We Stood Tall Together written by returntosaturn. He curses himself for allowing his stubborn, unbridled empathy to impede even his grief, the only element that still remains within his grasp.

If I Can't Give You Words written by returntosaturn. He find himself restless, not in want of breakfast, unable to leave her side for the beasts in his case lest she wake up and find herself alone. So he settles at the chair at his desk, faces the wall tacked with sketches, strips of notes and scrawled reminders of this footnote or that, and the black, shining, well-oiled typewriter and its keys like taunting jaws.

Something Just Like This written by njckle. A collection of newtina AUs.  

a moment of apricity written by njckle. Newt returns to school. Although, he's a few years too late and on the wrong continent.

Our Midnights written by hufflepuffsstrikesback (nadvaa). Tina earned a weekend off before she had to go back to MACUSA. After a night spent together, Newt asked her out on a vacation. Finally, they have a little private time to get to know each other and to explore what they've been ignored before.

The Feeling Eyes written by hufflepuffsstrikesback (nadvaa). Tina is an undergraduate student working on her dissertation. Newton Scamander is four years her senior and currently chasing his doctorate degree. She needs him for her dissertation, and he needs her for his upcoming project. After working with him for quite some time, she realizes that he actually fun to be around.

Yours written by gnimmish. Not long after the events of Fantastic Beasts, Tina receives a missive from a certain magizoologist. Everything about it confuses her.

Maybe a little... written by EpochApocrypha. It had been happening all her life, she was always showing up where she was least wanted. This time though, her heart paid a heavy price for such a hard lesson learned. A bit of Newtleta as well here.

This Strange World written by @turnerflowers. Newt and Tina Scamander had the ideal marriage to a stranger’s eye. They were both young, healthy, and shared the kind of love that some could only dream of.

Playing in the Snow written by @timeladyjodie​. The group of Newt, Tina, Jacob, Nagini, Theseus, and Kama had been at Hogwarts for a week after the incident at the amphitheater, planning and scheming for what they should do next.

Somebody Waits for Me written by LittleLonnie. Tina returned to America to continue her work for MACUSA. Surviving four years in a place now full of tainted memories and far away from loved ones. Until one day she is offered a chance to leave it all behind to continue her life in Europe where she left her heart.

a grand canyon in the corner of your bedroom written by fakelight. “I couldn’t wait,” he says, hesitantly, haltingly. “For it to be published. I couldn’t wait.”

Catharsis written by hidetheteaspoons. Following the events of that horrific night, Newt provides his companions with the comfort they need to begin the process of healing. During this time, Newt meets with Tina and confronts his feelings for her head-on, while Dumbledore prepares the group for the next phase of the war against Grindelwald.

Also recommend the works of @silvertonedwords, @albinokittens300, @katiehavok, and @ravens-and-writings. All have written a list of awesome fics to read.

[stormtrprinstilettos]

Chameleon - Ch. 3, part 2

{Part 1 here}

Can you, uh, come in there with me while..." Brian motioned his head to his door.

You put a hand on his shoulder and act concerned. "Are you scared of Lyla, Brian?"

"Ehh, yeah, a little bit. Last time she was here she sounded... scary.” The two of you laugh hysterically as you walk in the door.

Roger spotted you immediately as you and Brian walked in. "Oh no, no, no, Brian this is my place tonight. You two can go to Y/N's." He ran to push you both back out the door.

"That's where we're going," you inform him. "Brian just needs to get something first." He walks back into the living room, and you follow, while Brian goes to his room.

"Condoms?" Roger drunkingly laughs. "You mean you don't keep a supply in your nightstand?" You rolled your eyes, hardly amused. "What? I'm just asking. For future reference." He gave you his over-exaggerated wink and turned the radio on full volume.

"Goodnight, Roger." You lightly tap his cheek with the palm of your hand before you make your way to Brian's room.

As you walk in, you see Brian at his desk. “Hey, are you ready?”

"Hey, Y/N, I'm sorry. I can't...I can't find the last pages of this..." He’s sitting with head in his hands, clearly frustrated and panicked. He banged his fists loudly against his desk.

You stand behind him, trying to calm him down by rubbing his shoulders. You bend down to his ear and speak calmly. “Hey, it’ll be okay. You can't find what?"

"I'm supposed to turn in what I have written of this paper so far to my supervisor tomorrow and I can't find the last five pages. I had someone type them up for me and I can't find them. I need to turn this in tomorrow morning..." He starts to frantically sift through everything on his desk.

You bend down beside him and grab onto his arm. "Do you have your notes? What you wrote?"

He pushes a notebook to you. "Yeah, it's all in here. But I can't turn this in." He stands up and starts to pace around in a panic.

"Well, you're in luck.” You grab his arm when he passes close to you, getting him to stand still. “I told myself this morning - well, afternoon - when I woke up that I would save two people today. So far, I've saved one, when I prevented Lyla from falling down the stairs at the bar tonight and breaking her neck.” You look over to the clock sitting on his desk. “I see on your clock that it is 11:56pm, so that gives me four minutes to save one more person, and I choose you."

Brian looks at you, confused. "How are you going to save me in four minutes?"

"Well, it'll take longer than four minutes because my typing skills aren't that great, but I have a typewriter, so grab your things and let's go." He grabs his guitar and starts going towards the door. "Oh, and if you don't want to try and sleep with all of this noise, I have an extra bedroom. New bed, clean sheets and everything."

"I could kiss you right now, Y/N." Brian grabs your shoulders and smirks as you bit the left corner of your bottom lip. "You're doing it again." He pinches the end of your nose, causing you crinkle it, and moves away to grab a set of clothes.

He could have kissed me just then but he pinched my nose! You roll your eyes as he walked out to the hall before you follow him out.

"You wouldn't happen to have an extra toothbrush, would you?" He points to the bathroom. The shower is on and there’s faint moaning sounds coming from the other side of the door.

"I will give you every toothbrush I have and will go buy you every other toothbrush in the entire London area if you get me away from here right now." He laughs and puts his hand behind your back as the two of you walk over to your place.

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰

You keep sneaking occasional glances at Brian while you’re typing. He’s sitting on the sofa with his guitar, playing quietly in an attempt to not distract you, but little did he know you were already very distracted. You couldn't help but stare with adoration. He was so captivating, mainly because he didn't know how handsome he was. The fact that he was sitting there playing these tunes he wrote made you that much more smitten.

"Brian, I can't read this. Can you come see?" He puts his guitar down and walks over to the table. You can read it just fine. You just want him next to you.

He leans over your shoulder. "That says 'spectral.'” He starts to walk away before turning back around and looking at you, scratching his head and grinning from amusement. “You could read ‘trigonometric parallax’ but you couldn’t…” He looks down and you’re doing your lip biting thing again, causing him to chuckle. "How much do you have left?"

"Just this last paragraph and I'll be finished." You don’t look at him. You know if you do you’ll allow the blush you think you’re holding in to simmer to the surface.

He sat on the table next to the typewriter. “I’ll sit here in case you have any more trouble reading the big words.” He stifled his laugh, playfully tapping his fingers on the table.

You’re trying to ignore him, but you can’t. You can feel him watching you. You can feel him smiling. You can’t take it anymore."I'm never going to finish if you keep watching me!” you bark. “It makes me nervous."

“I make you nervous?” he teased.

“No!” He’s got you stumbling for words, which you feel you fully deserve, given how you were doing the same to him earlier in the night. “You’re watching me and it makes me nervous when people watch me when I work.”

He crossed his arms, his face turning serious and his voice getting deeper. "I just want to make sure you're doing a good job. For what I'm paying you, I expect perfection."

"You take me to dinner with horrible table side entertainment. Then you take me to listen to bad music and do some babysitting. Then you walk me home in the cold night air. And now here I am, being forced to work. This is the worst date ever.”

Brian fake pouted with his bottom lip. "Did you not have a good time tonight, Y/N?"

You roll your eyes and go back to your typing. "I expect payment in full as soon as I am finished with this."

"Absolutely.” He nods his head once, arms still crossed in front of him. “In full."

After a few more moments of your typing and his watching your every move, you push your chair back and stand up."Mr. May," you peck at one more key. "I do believe that I am finished." You take the page out of the typewriter, stand up, and do a dramatic bow. "Allow me to present my masterpiece."

"Mmm hmm. Mmm hmm," Brian jokingly emoted as he looked over the page and tapped his finger on his mouth as he paced the floor. "Well, Y/N..." He walked over to you and placed a hand on your shoulder. "I must say, you've done an excellent job."

"Yeah, so where's my payment?" You hold out your hand pretending to be expecting money to be placed in it.

Brian places a hand on top of yours, pushes it down, and uses his other arm to reach behind your back, pulling you close to him. With his free hand, he places his fingers underneath your chin and slowly raises your head. He bends down, putting little space between your lips. "I am a man of little wealth, so may I pay the lady with a meager kiss?"

You gaze deeply into his gorgeous hazel eyes and speak softly. "Surely no kiss from you would meager, sir."

He leans in closer and gives you a soft, sweet, lingering kiss, both of you closing your eyes, soaking in the moment. When you finally separate, with Brian's hand still under your chin, neither can take your eyes off of the other.

"That was nice," he says as you finally open your eyes and see him giving you a seraphic smile.

"Yeah..." You are at a loss for words. Your body feels like it could float away in a light breeze.

And just as quickly as the kiss happened, the moment ended. He cleared his throat and moved his hand from your chin. "I need to get some sleep. I know, I have terrible timing, and there's nothing more I want than to stay up and..."

"I know. I didn't sit here and type all of this for nothing.” What the hell just happened? you ask yourself. “Go. Get sleep. Tomorrow is more important than me." You don’t know whether you want to laugh or cry or both.

"I disagree, but..."

You hold up a hand, cutting him off. "Go to sleep. It's time to end this date."

"I suppose..." He did his little fake pout again and you playfully slap his arm as you walk towards the bedrooms. As you turned to walk into yours, he stops you. "Hey, wait! Don't I get a goodbye kiss before I leave? Since this is officially the end of our date?"

You stood on your tiptoes and he still had to bend down to reach your lips. You exchanged another soft kiss, this one just as sweet as the last. As you moved apart, you both smile.

"Goodnight, Brian," you say softly.

"Goodnight." He paused for a moment. "Oh, Y/N? Still feeling yellow?"

Poking your head out of your door and seeing him standing there, you can only think of one reply. "Golden."

You share one last smile before closing the doors.

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰

You were a bit upset that you didn't wake up early enough to make Brian some breakfast before he left for his classes, but when you walked in the kitchen you saw he had helped himself. Thinking back on the night before, you couldn't help but smile. Not only did Brian come out of his cave, but he kissed you. Twice. And you were still high on the feeling they gave you.

"Where's my favorite girl?" Freddie called out from the living room. "Y/N? Where are youuuuuu?" He made you smile when he barged in unannounced and that's the only reason you didn't regret giving him a key.

"I'm in the kitchen! Do you want some breakfast?" you called out.

Freddie danced his way into the kitchen, humming a happy tune, appearing to feel as giddy as you were. "You have something to tell me?" he prodded. "You're not allowed to keep secrets from me." You give him a puzzled look, trying to figure out what he was talking about, as he stood there with his arms crossed. "Brian's clothes? His guitar? The extra toothbrush in the bathroom? Don't think I didn't pick up on this shit."

You walk over, put your hands on his shoulders, looked him straight in the eyes, and puckered your brows. "Why were you in my bathroom looking at my toothbrushes, Freddie?"

"I was looking for you but shut up,” he nudged you back, “what are Brian's guitar and clothes doing here when he clearly isn't?" He stepped back and gasped. "You fucking tart! He spent the night!" He grabbed you into a big hug before you could even say anything.

"I think you're more excited than you need to be.” You turn your back to Freddie and walk to the other side of the kitchen. “Nothing happened. He slept in the extra room."

"Oh, don't fucking tell me nothing happened. Something happened.” He stands next to you and pinches the tip of your nose. “I can tell. You're glowing."

You push his hand away and do that nose crinkle thing they all find amusing. "Lyla stayed the night with Roger, Brian stayed over here because they're gross and I typed up some stuff he needed for one of his classes. That's all,” you explain as you turn your back to Freddie again. You glance over your shoulder and give him a dimpled smile. "Oh, and he kissed me. Twice."

Freddie couldn't contain his excitement. "Finally! Our Bri finally made a move! I want details."

You recounted the events of the night after he left, not missing a single detail. "... and then he kissed me one more time and we went to bed. That's it." Your face was radiantly beaming. Then you sighed. "Freddie, for the first time in my life, a guy has made me feel like a lady. He didn't want sex. He wanted my company. He was so respectful and sweet..."

"This is so sappy I think I may vomit." He grabbed you into another hug. "But I'm happy that you're happy. Maybe now Brian will stop being such a prat and get rid of Jane.” As soon as the words left his lips he covered his mouth, surprising even himself that those words were spoken.

“What did you just say?” Your expression changed from sheer joy to completely rigid.

His hands are still covering his mouth. “Fuck. Y/N. I’m sorry…”

“Freddie?” You walk over to him and move his hands from his mouth, resisting choking him in the process. “Who is Jane?” You grit your teeth.

“She’s…”

“He has a girlfriend?” He doesn’t answer you. “Freddie?”

“I thought they were done. I haven’t seen her around…” He’s quickly interrupted.

“That’s because we can’t stand her so she stopped coming around.” You turn and see a hungover Roger leaning against the cabinet.

“I’ve been around you three for an entire month and I’m just now hearing about this Jane person?” You walk over to Roger, trying not to yell.

“Fred and I don’t like her so we don’t talk about her much.” He shrugged his shoulders and turned to pour himself a cup of coffee.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” You are so upset with the both of them you don’t even want to look at them. You walk out and go sit in the living room.

Roger walks past you. “I’m going back home. Lyla’s in there…” You give him a death stare and he quickly walks out.

Freddie softly steps into the room and sits next to you. “Are you mad at me?”

“No, yes, no, I don’t know! You’ve been pushing me to Brian since…”

Freddie grabs your face in his hands and cuts you off. “Because I see how you look at each other and you can’t tell me there’s nothing there!”

“Well, there was, but I’m not that girl, Freddie” You stand up and walk away from him. “I’m not going to go after someone who is in a relationship. I’m not doing it.”

“I’m so sorry, Princess, I really didn’t know she was still a thing until a couple of days ago and I was hoping it wasn’t true.” You can see in his eyes he meant no harm. You weren’t mad at him. You weren’t mad at anyone. You were upset at the situation. You were also upset with Brian for kissing you last night.

You sit back down next to Freddie on the sofa and laugh. “This is so typical.” He looks at you, confused because he was preparing himself for a meltdown. “Oh well,” you say, nonchalantly. “Plenty of other fish in the sea.”

“That’s right,” he agrees. “Plenty of other turds in the toilet.”

Almost perfectly on cue, Roger walks back in and heads to the kitchen. “I forgot my coffee.”

You look at Freddie who is already looking at you, trying to suss out what’s going on in your brain. “What?” you ask. He shakes his head, resigning to the fact that you probably already have your sights set elsewhere. “Oh hush,” you tell him as Roger walks back in, raising the coffee mug and smiling as he walks out the door.

Freddie gives you a blank stare.

“Come on,” you tell him. “You knew I needed my mind made up for me, and look at that. It happened.”

[wackygoofball]

I really like your moodboard/aesthetics and they’ve been inspiring me to try my own hand at creating some. Only, I’m not sure where to start? Would you have any tips?

Hi, thank you very much, @idontwantto10! ♥

Glad to hear that my little moodboards sparked your own creativity. The more the merrier, after all. ☺

To give this fair warning… I don’t have a particular technique or anything, I mostly just play around with effects or themes until something comes out that I enjoy.

So… I will start out saying what I tend to do, and maybe you can take something from that:

The first step is to get an idea for the theme (at least that is my starting point). Sometimes, I will have an idea in the back of my head already. Sometimes it’s a fanfic I actually have in mind, so it’s rather fleshed-out and I will have specific ideas of what it will look like, which can be both a blessing and a curse, because that may be limiting when you can’t find images that correlate with your mental image. And sometimes… I don’t know what I am up to, so I just start brainstorming.

I keep lists of ideas, that helps a great deal - because I tend to forget a lot. Sometimes it’s just a key word or the basic plot for the moodboard-story.

But if I don’t have a plan? I just check out pictures to get some inspiration. Or I google movie lists to get an idea for an AU.

1. Image Hunt

The first step in the actual creation process for me is finding fitting pictures. I normally use pixabay.com because they feature a whole lot of free images. I also recently started using some Pinterest images, but for those, I include the links to the pins in the “Additonal Image Sources” section featuring in most of my moodboard text posts. On that same note, I try my best to link to the image sources I have available to me. The one thing where I normally don’t have the image sources anymore is the Nik and Gwen images I have because I just have soooooooo many of them in my files that I can’t keep track anymore, to be honest.

Generally, I have a huge file full of all kinds of images, so I have a base to fetch from without image-hunting *everything* over and over again. So when I have an idea for a certain theme, I will start out searching for images relating to that specific theme. If we take the military-themed moodboard I did ages ago as an example, I will search for images about “war,” “soldiers,” “guns,” “rifles,” “training,” etc. (whatever key words I can come up with) until I have a workable number of results. Naturally, that depends on the size of the collage and how many images the collage requires. Those images, for me, are the way to transmit the theme to others so that they know what that is about even without having to read the text post below.

Then I ask myself the question: What are the emotions of the characters (in my case… JB always, duh). Are they depressed somehow or at some point? Then I may want to include images transmitting that. Is this a happy moodboard? Then maybe I wnat to look for images that show Gwen and Nik laughing (or free images of people looking similar or where you can’t really tell what the person looks like).

Beside that, my JB Moodboards, for the sake of their sweet, sweet love, will also require images that give me the romantic vibe. Hence, having a solid base of images of kisses and hugs and all that is almost inevitable for my way of moodboarding.

And yeah, JB image hunting... that’s a thing of its own. I have soooo many imgaes saved to my computer by now, it’s pretty insane, but naturally, you can’t make a JB moodboard without them (unless it were solely book!Jaime and book!Brienne related). So yeah, a solid base of them is also necessary. I am always looking for images that display different kinds of mood and emotions or feature different settings.

So now, after the image hunt is over and stored on the computer, the next step is in place.

2. Piecing Together

Generally, what I do is decide on how I am going about this. Do I want to include gifs or just still images? If I include gifs, I have to think about the file sizes, I have to think about how to fit it with other images. If I want to include still images, do I want to piece them together individually or do I simply want to have them made into a collage (for which there are numerous websites out there that will do the job for you)?

As for my personal prefences, I like mixing up the way of arranging singular images, that some are bigger, some are smaller, some square, some rectangle. Others may enjoy the more focused and reduced moodboards more (and I love them as well, but for the story-themed moodboards, those work best for me personally), but I like to have some variations between the collages, especially since it allows for aligning the text (later step) in different ways.

But yeah, that’s a thing of taste, really.

So, for the sake of making an example, let’s stick to the idea that I want to do (another) military-themed moodboard for JB and that I want to have collages using a website. Then I piece them together on the website (depends on which one you are using) and see how things look harmonic to me.

Hence, I have to decide on how many Jaime and Brienne images I want per frame, how many theme-images I want to include in one collage, if I want to include a kiss or a hug picture in that image, and if so, where.

I I have a certain story in mind with the moodboard, I am trying to have a kind of narrative trajectory. I will start out introducing the theme (hence some of the themed images always go in the first panel) and link it to Jaime and Brienne, whom I will introduce (say, Jaime as the commander of the squad and Brienne as one of the team members). Then I may do another collage that shows their struggling (depressed-themed images) and then move over to mixing in romantic images in one of the following panels.

In the end, it depends on the images I find and how they look right to me. That doesn’t mean that they look right to other people, but that is then what I have in my mind.

After that is done and saved to my computer, the next step is in place:

3. Effects

Yet again, that depends on the programs or websites you are choosing. Googling around will give you a manifold of options to fetch from. I do a lot of editing with GIMP, though I also rely on websites where they have preset color-effects to fetch from. Again, it’s worth googling to see what you like best.

Anyway, sticking with the idea of the military-themed moodboard, that may set the color palette for most of the images. I would likely include collages that feature earth/green color tints or black and white images, or darker effects to help intensify the mood and unify the images of the moodboard (which is a great way to make it seem like they actually form a unity and aren’t just images you put together for the sake of it).

4. Text

That’s optional. I tend to add text to convey the story I am trying to tell. Yet again, there are online services that will do that, or you can use editing programs such as GIMP for the task. The advantage of GIMP etc. is that those programs will mostly offer a vast array of options to fetch from, since you can easily download fonts that fit your theme. For military-themed moodboards, all sorts of typewriter fonts look really well to me.

As I hinted at above, the way the collage is set up will in some way determine the way the text will be set. Personally, I like to use different fonts and put the text boxes in varied spots (sometimes I will have one in the upper left corner and one in the lower right corner, one time it may be at the center, another time it may be in the middle of one particular image within the collage, it really depends).

As to the content… well, it always depends on the moodboard itself, of course. I often like to include sort of “quotes” of what I believe JB would say in the story I am trying to tell through the images. I sometimes give further exposition by simply adding JB’s names and their function in the moodboard (are they officers, are they married, is one of them a scientist or a thief, etc.?).

Basically… it’s about making explicit those kinds of part of the story that the images cannot convey in its specificity or that help set the mood. The text can also link images together or bridge between one part of the collage and the next.

But yeah, in the end, it really depends on the story you want to tell and to what extent you want to explicitly narrate it through text. Sometimes just the images are more telling than any written text.

So… that is basically the motions I go through when piecing a moodboard together, but another chronology or take on it may well work better for you, so that really depends on your own preferences.

As to the technicalities… it yet again really depends on the programs you are using. My approach is always… trying things out, really. Do I like this effect they offer as a preset in GIMP? Do I like one from a website that offers effecs more? Do I want to overlay it with a blurred image to create this “bloom” effect? Do I want to add a bokeh effect? Do I want to layer it with a texture? Those are the kinds of things I can only advise to honestly try out (if you want to try them out - I mean… you can also simply put the images together, effects are not mandatory by any means). That is how I learned more about GIMP and how to use it. So yeah, it’s a bit of trial-and-error for me. I play around with effects and settings of text until I personally find it fitting.

In the end, it really is a matter of taste, so I can’t give any specific tutorial or walkthrough for how to get a nice moodboard. This is my way of going about it, yours may be vastly different.

But yeah, I hope this was of some help regardlessly.

Thanks another time for the compliment and that you reach out to me.

Much love! ♥ ♥ ♥

And I am looking forward to your own creations!

[momma-fif-photos]

Still Life Photography

Introduction

Still life photography is a unique genre of photography in which the photographer is creating the image, rather than capturing a moment. From the setting, to objects and even lighting and mood, the photographer can bring their creative vision to life. You don’t always need a fancy studio or gear to create beautiful photographs — you can use a table near a window or even an outdoor scene. Since you’re dealing with inanimate objects, it allows you to take your time and experiment with lighting and composition.

Still life photography, which derived from its still life painting counterpart comes in all shapes, sizes and color. Common subjects might include plants, food, rocks, glassware — and essentially any natural or manmade object you can think of. Total control allows for endless possibilities.

How to create still life photography

Creating fine art still life photography is one of the rare occasions when you will get to have full control over how the photographs will come out. It’s a good idea to start with a vision in my mind of what the photograph should look like. As long as you have a clear vision of what you are trying to create, it just comes down to putting your skills to work creating the photograph. Many images in the still life photography gallery start as sketches, before eventually being photographed, I did not sketch my idea (I can't draw) I had a vision in my head and just went with it.

1. Keep it simple

2. Consider that glassy and shiny reflective surfaces are the most difficult to   work with

3. Keep it clean

4. Be patient

5.Make a note of the camera settings

Image 1:

The image above of a pair of worn tatty converse faded, scuffed pumps, puts a small smile on my face, not only because I love converse myself, but because it reminds me of the students that surround me on a daily basis. To me it shows comfort, a sort of comfort blanket knowing that the person wearing these pumps can rely on them not to give them any blisters or discomfort. The way the pumps have been placed showing the brands logo which is clean and clear, yet the side and front of the pumps are very worn. These pumps if could talk would probably say they are tired but will continue to support their owner and they are needed and loved. 

Image 2:

The image of the four colorful melted ice-creams on a cone is really interesting to me, I think it captured my eye because of the nature of the photo and how it relates to me and my children (they love ice-cream) The way the ice-creams have melted into one another, the careful arrangement in the way the ice-cream has been mixed and the fact that no two color is smudged, has all been carefully thought about. The light gray background allows the image of the ice-cream to stand out more and capture your eye.  

Image 3:

This still image was very interesting to me, it reminded me of my day to day life. To some people they may see beauty, I see chaos. The typewriter showing work, the coffee trying to have a break, yet the paintbrushes show trying to keep little ones entertained, but it’s not quite working. This is how I interoperate this image.

Others may see a person who is very artistic in the way they have placed their paint brush and pallet and scattered flowers around to give a bit more of an artistic flair, showing of their artistic skills within their coffee and the love heart. The typewriter with the carefully types quote shows that the person is loving what they do and will continue to do so.

Conclusion

Whilst I was in the studio, I had full control over the light and the subject. I was able to create a photograph and adjust the light and the subject as much and as often as I liked.  

My objects say and explain a lot about me, my trainers show my vibrant personality, whilst my inhaler (which I am never without) shows that I have health issues. For those who really know me, no that I am never without a water bottle and the crazier and brighter the bottle the better.

My food canister and fork, well that’s the mother in me, I always have it full of goodness as I have twins and ones always hungry.

This activity was enjoyable to me as I felt like for once I was in total control of everything around me

Below is my attempt of still life photography, for those who know me my items describe me so well. I love bright and colourful trainers, and converse are my all time favourite. my bright and crazy water bottle which I am never without, like wish my inhaler which shows I have a medical condition, and my food canister well because I love food its that simple.

[blogwritetheworld]

The Write Place: The Everywriter’s Desk

by Lisa Hiton

Looking for the right advice on pursuing the writer’s life? You’ve come to the write place!

The summer before my junior year in high school, my soon-to-be teacher, Ms. Tanimoto, assigned two books to incoming AP students: The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne and The Elements of Style by William Strunk Jr. and E.B. White. The Scarlet Letter was forgotten as soon as it was finished; I instantly detested Hawthorne’s penchant for moral allegories surrounding evil and sin, finding it all a bit too on-the-nose and heavy-handed. The Elements of Style, however, became an instant mainstay to my writerly temperament.

It seemed strange to be assigned a reference book to read cover to cover. I’d only ever used reference books like dictionaries, thesauruses, and encyclopedias as touchstones during reading and writing assignments—brief interruptions to expand my knowledge and/or revise my work.Upon reading Strunk and White’s masterpiece, however, my understanding of reference books changed entirely. Though the book is a mere 87 pages, my peers seemed to begrudge the assignment or blow it off entirely. I, on the other hand, found my attention rapt.

The Elements of Style is a reference book on the rules of English rhetoric, yes, but the attitude and dogma of its writers, Strunk and White, make it as much a manifesto as a convincing collection of laws governing the way we (ought to) speak and (must) write. The seriousness of tone and voice in these pages presents us with far more than a reference for grammar and usage, but rather, a true understanding of style in and of itself—that rhetoric is more than grammar and syntax, but a true translation of our consciousness into clear, material words. Such gravitas became most apparent to me when I arrived to page 52. Amid the section on misused words and expression, Strunk and White lay out the difference between nauseous and nauseated as follows:

Nauseous. Nauseated. The first means “sickening to contemplate”; the second means “sick to the stomach.” Do not, therefore, say, “I feel nauseous,” unless you are sure you have that effect on others.

Besides thinking of the many times I had misused “nauseous”, I actually laughed out loud. Amidst the seriousness in the rule there was a deep sense of snark. From the seriousness came a great deal of humor.

Since that first reading encounter with The Elements of Style, my well worn copy has remained with me. Whether I’m writing an academic paper, a cover letter, an author’s bio, a poem, a book review, or anything else, Strunk and White are there reminding me to be as clear as possible.

MY ELEMENTS OF STYLE

As I continued to grow in my writing life, I found that other books became constant sources of aid and knowledge, so much so that my desk had its own section of books at the ready, for whatever obstacles befell a given blank page. And over the years, the kinds of references have grown to fit my own writerly needs. And as I visit my friends who are writers, I notice some trends from desk to desk.

Here’s my working writing desk, fit with all I need! I’ve got my laptop, notebooks, pens, reference books, books to review, and some of my favorite books that I keep near me for inspiration. In the drawer of my desk, I keep mailing materials for my stack of chapbooks to sign and send to those who request it.  

Regarding reference books, every writer’s desk seems to contain The Elements of Style by Strunk and White, a dictionary, and a well-worn thesaurus. My desk currently has my hardcover copy of The Elements of Style, The New Roget’s Thesaurus in Dictionary Form, and Soule’s Dictionary of English Synonyms. Especially for those of you dreaming up holiday wish-lists, Maira Kalman’s illustrated version of The Elements of Style may be just the special book to add to the collection for you.

While I used to keep a desk-sized Merriam-Webster Dictionary on hand, I find the synonyms and thesaurus more useful these days, perhaps especially as I revise my first book of poems. When I find myself overusing the same verbs and adjectives, I can quickly reach for one of these books and get some inspiration. I’ve converted, these days, to using apps for dictionary and etymology. I especially like the free dictionary.com app, which allows you to click on a word three times and open up its dictionary page. The app also offers audio pronunciation.

Dictionaries are important resources, ones which can’t quite be replicated online. Each nation has its favorite, from the Oxford English Dictionary, to Merriam-Webster’s, to the Macquarie. While I don’t keep Merriam-Webster on my desk at this moment, I do keep it at my fingertips, using their online resources when I’m in need. Further, I’ve found the Merriam-Webster twitter to be a source of great comfort and comedy amidst America’s dire political landscape. While it is easy to look up a word online, the physical books—dictionaries, thesauruses, etc.—encourage more meandering through the worlds of words. Without the instant gratification that comes from looking up a word, you may stumble upon an etymological note that takes you to another page, and so on, until you’ve learned new things about words and perhaps found an even better way to say whatever it is you set out to put on the page.

These are my three most used reference books right now. I’m really excited about this new, hardcover copy of The Elements of Style, especially!

Another particularity of a writer’s desk seems to be a given writer’s tools. Do you do most of your writing on a computer? In a notebook? With an old refurbished typewriter? I personally use multiple tools to get my writing done. Certain parts of my writing process involve pen and paper, while others are done on my laptop. Many writers have a kind of obsession with their objects. For example, I only write with fine point uniball pens in black or purple ink. I use fine point, black sharpie markers for my writing to-do lists. And, as you'll see from a glimpse at my desk, I'm as particular about notebooks as I am about pens!

I keep a few different notebooks with different purposes going at a time. Here you’ll see two Shinola notebooks, which I love because they engrave your name for free—a great holiday gift, indeed!—my Moleskine planner, my to-do list pad, and a grey notebook where I keep notes on books as I read them. 

Another important element of a writer’s desk is its proximity to field guides. In my dream writing room, this might include specific maps, atlases, and encyclopedias. Currently, I’m working on poems and essays about my time spent in Greece on the island of Thassos and in the city of Thessaloniki. To that end, I have acquired field guides that can help me re-orient myself to that location. Names of trees, fish, flora, fauna, and foods are different in other places. I’ve also become a collector of field guides, including one that has images and names of specific kinds of lighthouses. What field guides might help you with a particular piece you’re working on right now?

As a field guide collector, these are some of my favorite possessions, found in random parts of the world, flea markets, and antique stores. Right now, I’m revising poems about my time in Greece on the island of Thassos. These field guides help inspire precision in describing water, fish, beaches, shells, and the like. 

Besides reference books and field guides, it seems that craft books or books about writing and reading are a mainstay on my desk too. Some of my absolute favorites are:

Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott

The Writing Life by Annie Dillard

Reading Like a Writer by Francine Prose

Blue Pastures by Mary Oliver

Having these books on my desk is a reminder of my own intellectual inheritance as a writer, as well as a great source of guidance and inspiration to me.

EXPANSIVE FIELDS

There are of course many other must-have books, tools, and resources that writers need to have at the ready. A comparative study of writers’ desks would be ideal. In the absence of access to the likes of desks by Dr. Seuss, Toni Morrison, Maya Angelou, Stephen King, JK Rowling, and the rest, here are some starter ideas by genre that you might consider as you expand your own writer’s desk. And of course, send us picture of your own desks and favorite desk necessities on Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter by tagging us or using the hashtags: #everywritersdesk.

A Poet’s Guide to Poetry

Poetry has its own rules and vernacular that may give writers pause. From reference books, to prompting books, there are many craft resources for poets looking to understand lines, stanzas, and the soul of poetry as they grow their own volumes of poetry. Here’s a wishlist of some of my most beloved/ragged/well-loved books on poetry:

A Poetry Handbook by Mary Oliver

The Triggering Town by Richard Hugo

Letters to a Young Poet by Rainer Maria Rilke

A Poet’s Guide to Poetry by Mary Kinzie

A Poet’s Glossary by Edward Hirsch

The Art of the Poetic Line by James Longenbach

A Little Book on Form: An Exploration Into the Formal Imagination of Poetry by Robert Hass

Rules for the Dance by Mary Oliver

The Sounds of Poetry: A Brief Guide by Robert Pinsky

ABC of Reading by Ezra Pound

Keeping Things Novel

For all you novelists, there are also a whole host of books to guide you in the writing of fiction.. Here are a few additions you might want to make to your #everywritersdesk:

How Fiction Works by James Wood

Brevity: A Flash Fiction Handbook by David Galef

The Art of Fiction: Notes on Craft for Young Writers by John Gardener

On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft by Stephen King

Reading Like a Writer by Francine Prose

Mastering Suspense, Structure, and Plot: How to Write Gripping Stories that Keep Readers on the Edge of Their Seat by Jane K. Cleland

Nonfiction

If creative nonfiction is where your writing practice is focused, there are all kinds of books available for your #everywritersdesk too! Nonfiction is a huge category, which could include journalism, biography, autobiography, and more. This list is focused on the literary spirit of creative nonfiction:

Writing Down the Bones by Natalie Goldberg

To Show and to Tell by Phillip Lopate

On Writing Well by William Zinsser

You Can’t Make This Stuff Up: The Complete Guide to Writing Creative Nonfiction by Lee Gutkind

Writing True: The Art and Craft of Creative Nonfiction by Sondra Perl and Mimi Schwartz

Inside Story: Everyone’s Guide to Reporting and Writing Creative Nonfiction by Julia Goldberg

Crafting the Personal Essay: A Guide for Writing and Publishing Creative Nonfiction by Dinty W. Moore

As these books serve the writing life, there are also those books that are so well-loved that they seem to live on our desks. Right now, the collected works of Sylvia Plath and Frank Bidart have been near me at all times, just like a security blanket for my authorial heart. What books do you find stay off the shelf? Tag them in your #everywritersdesk photos.

Of course, there are many other books that may guide you on your journey. Many craft books and writers’ resources can also be found on my series blog, “Reading Like a Writer” where I recommend specific craft books in conjunction with the genre of Write the World’s monthly writing contests. We can’t wait to see your additions to #everywritersdesk by tagging us on Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook!

About Lisa

Lisa Hiton is an editorial associate at Write the World. She writes two series on our blog: The Write Place where she comments on life as a writer, and Reading like a Writer where she recommends books about writing in different genres. She’s also the interviews editor of Cosmonauts Avenue and the poetry editor of the Adroit Journal.