#newberry at night

[sophisticated-creepy]

Dessert was brought out to the diners of a rich tiramisu paired with the house version of a Goodnight Kiss cocktail (or mocktail), the specialty nightcap’s colored liqueur glinting almost sinisterly of ruby bloodstone in the tall, fluted glasses. The dining room was filled once more with conversation and laughter, as crooner’s music of days gone by lilted sweet serenades to round out the intimate atmosphere of opulence. Having been served, Lola reached for Stanley, turning off the tape recording feature, and stuffed it with her pen and notepad away back into her purse to fully enjoy the company of her friends.

“Well, no newspaper man,” she said with a slight shrug as she spooned into her dessert. “But still a good play nonetheless. For a moment there, they had me believing the chef was the one who committed the crime.”

          “That would have been a neat twist if two people attempted to plot against Fernsby in the same night,” Modesta said with a laugh.

          “What if all of them had tried to murder Fernsby?” Jack asked, the group responding in more laughter at the convoluted thought.

          “Although I am slightly disappointed none of you got to see Mr. Newspaper Man, maybe Jack got a shot of him at some point during the play,” Lola said, motioning with her spoon at the camcorder.

          “I’ll keep an eye out for him when I review the footage for editing,” Jack said, making a mental note of the idea. As the friends continued in their conversation, a woman with soft brown hair and eyes, wearing a gold nameplate secured to her black jacket lapel, approached their table.

          “Pardon me for intruding, but who among you is Mr. Glenbrook?” she asked, her smile sweet and charming.

          “I am. How may I help you?” Raphael asked.

          “My name is Annie, and I’m the Director of Hospitality. There’s no need to rush dessert, but when your party is ready, I’ll be guiding you on your stay tonight at the Manor House,” Annie said. “That includes a tour of the upper levels where you’ll be lodging.”

          “That sounds wonderful. Thank you, Annie,” Raphael said.

          “My pleasure. Whenever you all are ready, come find me at the hostess stand located where you first walked in.” Annie gave another brilliant smile to the group and then departed.

          “Ooh! My stomach just got filled with so many butterflies,” Lola announced with a shiver. “I still can’t believe we’re all staying the night. This is honestly the best thing you guys could have ever done for me. Thank you.”

          “The night’s only just getting started,” Modesta reminded.

          “Plenty of time and opportunities for you to get your spooky on,” Lazare added.

          “I can’t wait!” Lola exclaimed, nearly vibrating in her chair with excitement to explore the old Manor House and its potential spookies. The friends enjoyed the remainder of dessert relaxed in one another’s conversation and company whereupon gathering themselves, agreed it was time to meet up with the Director of Hospitality at the hostess station, eager to get the rest of their night underway. Annie greeted them with her award winning smile as the cluster of five congregated in the main foyer outside the dining room.

          “All right, is everyone ready to get started?” she asked, collecting a clipboard of papers and a packet full of specialty room keys from the hostess podium. “Did you enjoy dinner?”

          “Everything has been terrific,” Lola said. “We also really enjoyed the play. It was so much fun and so clever. Real quick, could you tell us who the director is? I’d like to tell them how much I enjoyed the show, if I could.”

          “Certainly. He’s right over there.” Annie raised her hand to flag down the play’s director who lingered somewhere behind the group of friends. Lola turned, expecting to see Mr. Newspaper Man walk in their direction, however, it was instead Detective Babcock who swaggered forward.

          “Oh! Detective Babcock is the director?” Lola asked, her jaw dropping open from surprise.

          “He is, as well as the writer of the play,” Annie replied. “Detective Babcock, these guests wished to congratulate you on tonight’s performance,” she said once the actor reached the podium.

          “Ah! That’s always nice to hear. Thank you,” Detective Babcock beamed, his eyes bright and smile cheerful as he faced the others.

          “Yes,” Lola stammered, recovering from her initial shock. “As I told Annie, it was indeed quite the clever show.”

          “I’m glad you enjoyed yourselves,” Detective Babcock said with a slight bow of appreciation.

          “I have just one quick question,” Lola began, ignoring the confused stares from eyes she felt penetrating the back of her head from her friends. “All the cast members were in the play tonight, yes?”

          “They were,” Babcock answered, a small wrinkle of question forming between his eyebrows as his head canted to the side.

          “I mean, not their characters, but the actual actors themselves? How many actors are normally in your plays?”

          “We’re a small troupe,” Babcock said. “There’s only just the five of us.”

          “So, then, who was the actor waiting in the---.”

          “Sweetie, I think you’re confusing your murder mysteries,” Raphael interrupted, placing his hands on Lola’s shoulders. “Remember? There were characters staged in the wings at the show we saw last weekend.”

          Lola looked up into her fiancé’s face, his eyes silently pleading for her to read his unspoken thoughts. “Oh…that’s right,” she drawled. “You’re right,” she said again, adding more confidence to her tone as she nodded along with Raphael. “Silly me, last week must have slipped my mind. Sorry, Detective, for getting confused.”

          “No need to apologize,” Babcock said. “I’m glad you enjoyed the show. Have a good rest of your night,” and he tipped the brim of his hat in farewell before departing.

          “Let’s get started, shall we?” Annie asked, stepping out from behind the podium. “Let me first show you to your rooms. Follow me, please.” With a beckoning wave, Annie led the group to a set of thickly carpeted stairs inside the foyer that ascended towards the upper levels, but as Lola took her place first in line, she felt her arm tugged backwards, and turned to find Modesta holding her sleeve.

          “Is there a particular reason why you felt the need to make that man uncomfortable?” Modesta asked, her voice a whisper so their tour guide didn’t overhear.

          “He wasn’t uncomfortable,” Lola said, matching her friend’s whisper. “I was trying to find out more information about newspaper man.”

          “I’m beginning to think there is no ‘newspaper man’.”

          “So am I,” Lola agreed, oblivious to the dripping sarcasm of Modesta’s comment. A gentle tug at her hand had Lola turning once more to the front of the line as Raphael led her up the stairs with him, at which point the friends gathered close on the second level landing so Annie could begin her official tour.

          “These rooms were once the dwelling spaces of the Northcott family members. Each room has been curated and furnished to personify each individual’s personality, based on what we know of their lives. Here, is young Edgar’s room, the only child of Cornelius and Lillian.” Annie stopped at a large paneled door of oak halfway down the long hallway as she rounded the banister, using one of the fancy keys from the packet at her clipboard to unlock the room, and swinging the door wide open, she gestured for everyone to enter. Edgar’s room was painted a soft, butter yellow with plush carpet covering the floor, while a full bed plumped with blue brocade and golden damask accents drew the focus as the main focal point of the splendid room. Decorating the walls were oil paintings depicting ocean scenes of large ships in calm seas. A fireplace of white painted brick boasted a sturdy mantle with vintage children’s toys resting on its top, and a toy chest with its contents spilling out of even more toys, was tucked against one side of the hearth. A bookcase displaying child-like trinkets was centered on the opposite wall of the fireplace next to a thick clothes closet and a small en suite.

          “Although Edgar followed in his father’s footsteps of the cannery business, we wanted to give his room that essence of youthful wonder, given he was the founders’ only child,” Annie explained as she watched the group “ooh” and “aw” over the space. “Now, this room will be Lazare Pyrite’s for the night,” Annie said, looking at her clipboard to find the guest’s name.

          “That’s me,” Lazare spoke, raising his hand, and Annie smiled as she passed along the room keys to him.

          “Let’s move on to the next room, shall we?” Annie said, continuing the tour. She led them next to the end of the hallway, where a cozy sitting area was furnished and staged with leather wingback chairs and a table set with items for teatime in the nook of bay windows overlooking the front of the grounds. A door was to the left and right of the setting, and Annie took them to the left, unlocking the paneled oak door with another ring of fancy keys from her clipboard packet.

          “This is Mr. Northcott’s room,” Annie declared as the door swung open on silent hinges. The chamber was a vast contrast to that of his son Edgar’s dwellings, for this room had painted walls of deep, hunter green, adorned with cherry accented furniture upholstered in vibrant tapestries. The bed was much larger as well, also dressed in deep, hunter green to match the walls, and dangling overhead was a gold, three-armed chandelier. Three pillows were propped against the sturdy headboard, as well as only three chairs placed in front of the fireplace between a large closet and en suite, and three paintings of hunting scenes decorated the walls. The room was grand, to be sure, and carried a weighty presence despite its minimalistic aesthetic.

          “Mr. Northcott was a studious, no nonsense man, especially in his business affairs, so this room reflects the dedication he had for the cannery,” Annie informed. “This will be Jack and Modesta’s room for the night.”

          “That’s us, thank you,” Jack said, taking the offered keys.

          “Perfect. That leaves Mr. and Mrs. Glenbrook’s room next. This way please,” and Annie ushered the group to the last bedroom available across from Mr. Northcott’s room. “I present to you, Lillian’s Suite,” and Annie held the door open for Lola and Raphael. Lillian Eleanor Northcott’s room was the personified breath of fresh air, with lilac painted walls decorated smartly with gilded framed paintings of delicate ladies with mischief behind their eyes, while antique lace hung from the windows in floor to ceiling curtains. The furnishings were sleek and polished, every detail executed down to the finest touch, including a vase of freshly cut roses sitting in the middle of a table between two chairs in front of the white brick fireplace. The large bed, dressed in a dusty rose duvet and mauve linen sheets, had a chandelier above it, dripping in clear cut crystal and glass beads. A massive armoire, vanity, and chest of drawers lined the walls appropriately, as well as several fully stocked bookcases, the slender tomes locked behind glass panels to preserve the brittle spines and pages. A special detail to the impressive suite, one that did not go unnoticed, was a silver tray on the davenport at the end of the bed with an ice bucket chilling a bottle of champagne, two fluted glasses, and a notecard in gold filigree which read “Happy Birthday” attached to a single long stemmed rose.

          “Lillian exemplified love and femininity, which we tried to recreate when furnishing her room. There’s also a claw footed soaker tub in the en suite, original to the home, as well as a delicacy ahead of its time,” Annie shared. “What do you think?”

          The moment Lola first walked into the room, she instantly fell in love. It was as if Lillian’s spirit still lingered in the lavish bedchamber, living her days in the routine of her life before tragedy ended too soon her existence. Lola could easily imagine the lady of the house going from one piece of furniture to the next, perhaps humming to herself while pinning her hair at the vanity, or spending countless nights reading while in front of a cozy fire. Little fragments of Lillian’s essence filled the space with warmth and life despite her being cold and dead.

          “Well, Lola?” Raphael asked, coming to stand by her side. “Is the room to your liking?”

          “It’s absolutely perfect,” Lola breathed. Her eyes continued to roam the walls and tables, unable to stay focused on one particular thing for too long before darting to the next enticing, pretty object, until eventually landing on the amused and handsome face of her beloved. “It’s perfect,” she repeated. “Thank you.”

          “Happy Birthday,” and Raphael leaned down to kiss her sweetly.

          “Now that everyone has had a chance to see the upper rooms, let’s continue on our tour,” Annie said, and the group of friends assembled in the hallway as the pleasant guide led the party towards the staircase.

          “Can you tell us what kinds of spooky things happen up here?” Lola asked. “It’s no secret this place is haunted. Surely there’s some type of paranormal activity happening up here, right?”

          “You are correct. From what I’ve learned based off the haunted guided tours, not much ‘ghostly activity’ happens specifically in the bedrooms,” Annie answered, “however, guests do tend to hear footsteps walking above them on the third floor at all ends of the night.”

          “What’s on the third floor?” Modesta asked.

          “That would be the old servants’ quarters,” Annie replied.

          “Are we able to tour the servant quarters?” Lazare asked.

          “Unfortunately, no, access to that area is closed to the public at the moment while renovations are taking place.”

          “What’s behind this door?” Lola asked, stopping at the top of the landing before following Annie down the stairs.

          “Oh, that’s Lillian’s library,” she said.

          “A library? Can we go in?” Lola grabbed for the crystal doorknob on instinct, but the knob wouldn’t budge beneath her hand.

          “I’m sorry, but the library is closed as well due to renovations, and not open to the public at this time.”

          “Come along, Lola, all that means is we have more reasons to come back at a later time,” Raphael said, his tone laced with humor while he twined their fingers together with one of his large hands to gently coax her down the stairs with the rest of the group. She gave a small pout, turning over her shoulder only to watch the door grow further out of reach, not that she was able to enter the library anyway, but thoughts of being free to investigate the door later that night chased away her frown, replacing the downturn of her lips into an upturned quirked smirk, no doubt wrought with mischief, and, consequently, trouble.

          “Have you had any personal experiences dealing with the ghosts while working here?” Jack asked.

          “I’ve heard the classic knocks and occasional banging every now and again, but I’ve grown so accustomed to it, I hardly even realize it’s happening,” Annie replied with a light laugh. “Though, one time, I believe I saw the Gray Lady.”

          “You’ve seen Lillian?” Lola all but shouted in excitement. “Where?”

          “I was in the basement getting the event space ready for a large dinner party. I heard footsteps coming down the stairs, and when I turned to see who it was, I saw what looked like a gray cloud move from the bottom step go into the kitchen. It was only brief, but I could distinctly make out a high-neck collared dress, with hair styled in the period of Lillian’s time, and just the briefest glimpse of her profile.”

          “That’s so wild,” Lola stated, in awe of Annie’s story.

          “What makes it even more startling, is that I was the only one in the Manor House at that time, and no one was due to the house for another three hours. So…do you folks want to see the basement?” A resounding “yes” was made by all, Annie laughing at the obvious exuberance and delight of the group, and took them to the lower level that housed the restaurant’s kitchen as well as the private event space, where a side door led partiers to the outer grounds, opening to the gazebo and carriage house as well as the sprawling landscape of the backyard edged by the Dead Forest.

          “Since you all are staying the night, let me go ahead and give you some basic rules,” Annie said, her statement gaining everyone’s attention. “This space, as well as the main level, are open for you to explore. I must insist that you please refrain from taking any bottles from the bars, and if a room is locked, that means it is unavailable to the public, so please don’t force your way into any secured space.”

          Lola felt the tingle of eyes turning to her at Annie’s last comment, but she ignored the feeling, contributing the sensation to her zealous imagination and halfway guilty conscience at plotting to revisit the off-limits library.

          “An hour after closing time, myself and the rest of the Manor House staff will depart. We will lock the front doors, but you are more than welcome to explore the grounds using this side entrance. Your room keys have an extra key that go to this lock. In the morning, simply lock the door on your way out and drop your keys in the return box against this outer wall.”

          “What time is check out?” Raphael asked.

          “The cleaning crew comes in at 8:00, so we advise guests to be gone by 7:30,” Annie said. “Are there any questions?” When none were spoken, Annie smiled. “Great! I hope you all enjoy your evening.” She looked to her watch, then back to the others. “It’s closing time now. Happy slumbers, everyone.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

It's my birthday today!!

What a better way to celebrate a birthday than by getting a new chapter? It's my birthday treat to you all! This story is unfolding in so many new layers I hadn't expected, so get ready for a wild ride!

Hopefully everyone is enjoying the story so far, even if there has been quite a bit of a lag in posting. I appreciate everyone out there reading this, so thank you from the bottom of my heart! You're the best!

Have a great day, and until next time, happy reading!

~Melissa

[lillifaba]

Last night Jennifer Newberry got stuck in the bubble during the curtain call. Luckily, her cast members and the backstage crew had her back (x)

[digitalnewberry]

Chag sameach

Tonight is the first night of Hanukkah, also known as the Festival of Lights--or as this 1954 children's book calls it, the Feast of Light.

All About Chanukah is an alphabet book with a creative twist. The entire book is printed to resemble a menorah. It's part of the John M. Wing Foundation on the History of Printing Collection at the Newberry Library, which focuses on the history of calligraphy, book design, and printing. There are many children's books in the collection that have similarly creative and unusual printing styles!

All About Chanukah highlights traditional features of Hanukkah celebrations, including latkes, Ma'oz Tzur, and of course, lighting the menorah. It also does an admirable job trying to fit the letter "X" in a near-universal alphabet book writing experience.

Read All About Chanukah

Explore Newberry Digital Collections

[krispyweiss]

An “Intellectualized Rock ‘n’ Roll Artist:” Robbie Robertson Dead at 80

Robbie Robertson is dead.

The Band co-founder, guitarist and primary songwriter died Aug. 9, his management said in a statement.

“Robbie was surrounded by his family at the time of his death,” the statement said.

Robertson was 80; no cause was given.

“May Robbie Robertson rest in peace and love,” Todd Rundgren’s Spirit of Harmony Foundation said.

His death leaves Garth Hudson, 85, as the sole surviving Band member.

Robertson was an “intellectualized rock ‘n’ roll artist,” Michael Des Barres said.

“Robbie Robertson is so important in the history of rock ‘n’ roll music, bringing Americana and country music together … he will be remembered,” Des Barres said.

Given Robertson wrote “The Night They Drive Old Dixie Down,” “The Weight,” “The Shape I’m In,” “Stage Fright,” “Up on Cripple Creek” and scads of others, that is an understatement.

“Robbie Robertson’s words wove the fabric of the songs we all wear,” Joe Newberry said. “Rest in peace.”

“The loss of Robbie Robertson is heartbreaking,” Kiefer Sutherland said. “Canada has lost an icon, and music has lost a poet and a scholar.”

Robertson started - as his Band mates Hudson, Levon Helm, Rick Danko and Richard Manuel did - with Ronnie Hawkins and the Hawks. They then became Bob Dylan’s band; then simply the Band.

“One of the all-time greats,” Tinsley Ellis said of Robertson.

When the Band split, Robertson’s output slowed considerably and he made just six LPs released between 1987 and 2019. But that didn’t faze Al Di Meola’s fandom.

“I absolutely adored Robbie Robertson,” the guitarist said. “His (self-titled) solo debut … is to this day my all time favorite pop album. … Robbie, rest in peace.”

8/9/23

[interact-if]

Hi, im looking for a story where you’re a vampire/demon who runs a night club & you’re feared by everyone. Some call you monster, demon, devil etc. in the first few episode, a character tried to flirt with the mc but mc’s not interested. It’s not water to blood. I just can’t seem to remember the name.

Hi Anon,

Might you be looking for The Vampire Regent by Morton Newberry & Lucas Zaper? If so, you can find the full work here!

[halfpastdead]

In The Flesh by Dominic Mitchell (2013), script to screen -> Series 1, Episode 2 (pt. 4 / ?)

Luke Newberry - Kieren Walker David Walmsley - Rick Macy Emily Bevan - Amy Dyer Stephen Thompson - Philip Wilson Steve Evets - Bill Macy Karen Henthorn - Janet Macy

INT. THE LEGION - CORRIDOR NEXT TO TOILETS

PHILIP guides KIEREN and AMY towards the chair designated for Rick and hastily pulls over another seat.

AMY (sarcastic)

Wow, it’s the VIP lounge.

PHILIP (as he places the second chair)

Enjoy your night.

Philip gives Amy a sly once over, is about to leave when...

Rick exits the mens’s toilets wiping his mouth. He sees Kieren. Freezes. Turns to ice. He does. If you were to go up to him now and push him he’d topple over and smash into a million little pieces. Kieren goes up to the edge of the PDS sufferer area. Rick snaps back into reality. Notices out of the corner of his eye Philip looking at him.

RICK 

Alright, mate?

Rick sticks out his hand. It trembles ever so slightly. Kieren looks at Rick. At his outstretched hand. He’s stunned by Rick’s response. He was expecting... what? Fireworks? A passionate embrace? Maybe not, not here, but certainly he wasn't expecting an ‘alright mate’ and a bloody handshake. He takes Ricks hand none the less.

KIEREN

It’s good to see you, Rick.

RICK

Yeah. Good to see you too, Ren.

Rick’s eyes dart over to Philip. He takes his hand back.*

RICK (CONT’D) (beat)

I’m sitting out there.

KIEREN

Right. Well I can’t go out there.

RICK 

Why not?

Kieren looks at Rick. Really? You really don’t know why? 

KIEREN

Rules.

RICK 

Who says?

KIEREN

Philip. 

Rick turns to Philip.

RICK

Lippy, what yer doin’ puttin’ Ren in ‘ere? It’s Ren, yer tart!

PHILIP

He’s, uh, he’s -

RICK

He’s a what?

PHILIP backs off. Rick lifts rope for Kieren. Kieren looks at Amy.

KIEREN 

And...my friend?

RICK 

Sure. If she must.

Kieren and Amy exit out the PDS sufferers’ area.

INT. THE LEGION - BAR AREA - NIGHT 4

KIEREN and AMY sit at RICK’S table. RICK drinks and chats with Kieren. GARY eyeballs Amy.

From the bar, BILL and JANET stare at Kieren, wary. Is the past repeating itself?**

RICK

The Trolley of Certain Death.

KIEREN

I forgot about that.

RICK

You made it. I rode it.

KIEREN

From the Den to the bottom of the crag.

RICK

Then, then, we made Lippy ride it. And he flew right off the path and into that bramble patch. YOU REMEMBER THAT, LIPPY?

*Rick did not end up taking his hand back while talking to grand ole Lippy. And he grabbed Kieren’s arm on the way out. Everyone say thank you David Walmsley! 

**I cheated a tiny bit with the order of the Bill and Janet shot, but I think this one captured that sentiment better than what got edited in the exact slot. Bonus Janet - ffs he’s back from the dead for seduction 2

[asassydork]

Chapter 1: Boy, You Got Me Helpless

Word Count: 3.4k

Summary: It wasn’t like it was pictured in the fairytales. In fact, she wasn’t sure it happened at all. Following a conspirator meeting in the ritzy neighborhood of Port Abigail, Emery finds herself caught in the midst of a conflict outside of Beaufort House, the local brothel. Stunned in disbelief at the events occurring right in front of her, she’s unable to find words or really put thought to work. Thankfully, she doesn’t have to do any of the thinking when it comes to the mysterious soldier who suddenly intervenes her thoughtless state and starts doing some of the thinking for her.

TW: references to violence and death, inappropriate noncon groping,

Port Abigail. Southern Wellington.

Port Abigail sits as the southernmost point of the state of Wellington. It overlooks what’s left of the Gulf, and despite the dark murky waters, it’s still one of the most beautiful places left. In some other lifetime, perhaps it would have been a scenic vacation spot or a place for honeymooners.

For Wellington to be as much a militaristic state as it is, one thing it’s done right was preserving the old merchant town. Most of the streets that sat away from the docks were lined with colonial buildings and regal homes from a time passed. Almost every street was cobbled because it was easier to fix. The docks stretched from Newberry Street deep into the forbidden waters, and spanned from Hastings Place to the east all the way to Market First to the west. It made for a rather interesting market district with half the new buildings belonging to the last of the merchants and craftsmen. Civilians who’d been swept up into the aftermath of a war that happened long before I was born. There weren’t many normies left in Port Abigail. Most had been ushered out during the war. Others were evacuated from the various storms that rock the coast.

The Federation only had means of allowing specialists with unique skills to stay in town. All of the other trades were monopolized by prisoners of war, low ranking officers and the discarded few who were kept around just to fill in the gaps on the assembly line or clean out the sewers every time it got clogged with ocean water. The most popular of these specialists weren’t the cooks or bakers but rather the brothel dames and their head mistress. Their availability and diversity was the only thing keeping the rest of us from being subjected to the advances of the male soldiers or any of the men in town, really.

Market First was a district known for its silver cobbled, well-lit streets, its nearly exotic colonial structures and its view over the Gulf that was especially pretty at night. This was considered the higher end of town. A place to get away from the monotony of the barracks and factor districts. It was home to an array of senior officer housing, the occasional speakeasy and of course Madame Sosa’s Refinery, the brothel that stretches from Essex Street to San Martin Square. It’s tucked away behind closed curtains in some of the nicest buildings in town. They’re all connected beyond just being row homes and townhouses. Some are connected through the basements in a tunnel system, others are connected through the top floor or an attic space. Others have doorways cut right through the heart of them. And with the example of Beaufort House, every floor on both sides is connected to the two buildings next to them. Maxwell Hall to the left and Younger Court to the right. Despite its accessibility though, it’s not the kind of place that draws much attention for being what it is. It was one of the nicest of the limestone and marble townhouses, with the fanciest front lawn and the prettiest windows with what I’m sure were the nicest views.

Beaufort House. Despite its obvious usage, it was actually more notably known for its blood-caked steps that came about every once in a while. There were a group of higher officials who’d gone out of their way to make Beaufort House known for its traitors. As the story goes, the first few people found murdered and beaten to death on the steps of Beaufort House were deserters, men who knew they were going to die one way or another. Since then, rapists, pedophiles and the occasional criminal were laid here as an example.

Stories that gave the pretty white stone a haunting vibe when they glistened in the moonlight. It was something rather distracting at an hour like this. Haunting beauty was something you won’t find anywhere else. There’s no cemetery for Port Abigail because of the floods. It gives the melancholy heart less to adore in quiet moonlight. So, I went out of my way to wander past the old house on my way back to the barracks from the Orange Tree, a speakeasy only a few blocks away, where the rebels tend to throw their get-togethers, smugglers organize pick up and scouts trade intel for booze and contraband. Tonight, it’d been the first time the Congress got together. At least, as many of us as there were on this side of the border. Wellington was rather hard to penetrate, even harder to get in legally. A task I’d taken in stride because of the difficulty presented. Not that anyone was really paying attention to such a feat anymore.

I’d made it to the corner of Essex near Beaufort house, heading towards San Martin and the docks when an unusual commotion caught my attention. I’d never been someone distracted by commotions, especially as loud as they turned out to be. But I’m human. So, the second one of them shouted something I didn’t catch and the other one tripped down the steps, I found myself drawing closer to figure out what was happening. I didn’t realize that one of them was being tossed out of Beaufort house until it was too late and I’d gotten in the way of the scene as it was unfolding. The drunken idiot came crashing down the last of the steps and off the curb at me because momentum gave him too much speed to stop himself. He didn’t collide with me, thankfully. I don’t know if I’d ever be able to recover from something like that.

Instead, he landed on his ass on the ground at my feet with a loud grunt of pain. I would’ve winced if I weren’t thrown into the middle of the conflict. I pulled him to his feet because I really didn’t want to get dragged into the middle of this. I didn't recognize him. Then again, he was a sailor by the partial uniform he was wearing.

When he got to his feet, he sort of fell into me in an intimate and dangerous kind of way. “Nice save, Price,” he whispers, grabbing my left breast firmly in his hand.

First off, my name was nowhere near Price. Again, he was a total stranger. Second off, groping me upon first glance was not the appropriate behavior. I might not carry rank in these parts but I still deserved a little more respect than that, especially considering I’ve shaved my head and was currently wearing a men’s uniform.

He didn’t get an inch closer to me or a better squeeze because an arm slung between us without much regard for how close it came to my face as the man who’d been there to throw him down the steps went to rip him off me by planting him back down on his ass. It was a clear indication that I shouldn’t have tried to help pick him up. I don’t know why I’d gotten involved and didn’t just run away like a normal girl.

Then again, I’ve never been one they’d call normal. I certainly wasn’t expecting the next few chapters of my story to suddenly make any sense. I just wished at that precise moment when I’d nearly been knocked out by a second stranger, that I’d acted the way I should’ve and gotten myself out of whatever it was that came next.

That being the nasty fight between the two. Well, really, it was more about the sober one beating the life out of the other one quite literally. I thought about asking him to stop. It seemed a little bizarre and extreme for such a public display, despite the hour.

Words ceased to exist in my world as I glanced around to find that I was the only person witnessing this. There wasn’t even a single person trying to peer out the windows of Beaufort House. I don’t know what I would’ve done if anyone else was standing around. I don’t know what my expectations were. By the time I examined my predicament, it was over. Blood soaked my boots and the bottom of my pants but I wasn’t even thinking about it. How could I think about it when the most gorgeous pair of green eyes were staring down at me with concern etched in his slightly bushy brows. I don’t know why I thought it was funny for him to be concerned about me.

“Are you okay?” He asks again, slightly louder like he suddenly realized I’d slipped away inside my head. “We have to go.” He shoved something in my hands.

I slowly looked down at my hand to find meal cards. Three meal cards. A bribe? I don’t know why it bothered me so much that he was buying my silence. I found it a little offensive, like I couldn’t be trusted with something like this. But I had to remind myself that he was a total stranger who also probably thought my name was Price.

I attempted to hand back the meal cards but he was too preoccupied with looting the man at his feet who I only just realized was definitely dead at that point. Still, I stood there and watched him pull small potion bottles from the man’s outfit, various other forms of contraband and a pocket watch that he stuffed into his breast pocket. That drew my attention to his jacket over his ruffled shirt that was more than a little disheveled like he’d been naked recently and tried to scurry back into his clothes as he chased the man out of the house. That’s what was really happening. A chase.

He stuffed the arrangement of small bottles into my trouser pockets in a rush that made me feel less like a person, somehow. I couldn’t help watching him, feeling drugged and drunk at the same time. In truth, I was just tired and overwhelmed… in a state of shock that I wasn’t sure I could snap out of.

He said something else before roughly grabbing my arm and pulling me after him. I tripped over the man and he caught me, put me on my feet on the other side of the incriminating evidence and grabbed both my arms tightly and shook me a little bit like he was waiting for me to snap out of it.

“Lieutenant,” he says, giving me recognition a lot of people didn’t. “Lieutenant, are you okay?” He didn’t wait for me to answer, just dragged me after him down Essex Street towards San Martin.

Before I knew it, we were at Division Six’s barracks. I don’t really remember how we got inside, only that I found myself in Captain’s Quarters before I could even blink. He left me standing next to the closed door as he rummaged through the room. He found a pair of trousers in the trunk and threw them at me. I caught them but only because his aim was pretty good.

“Lieutenant,” he says again louder than before. He got right in my face and grabbed me by the cheeks like he was trying to figure out what drugs I must’ve been on.

At that moment, I really wished I was on drugs. I wished there was an explanation other than a brain fog that I couldn’t navigate.

I didn’t mean to kiss him. Well, yes, I did because he was that close to me and looking at me like that. But I hadn’t meant to actually kiss him like we weren’t total strangers. It wasn’t a gentle brief glide of my lips across his. It wasn’t a peck that I’d regret later. It was an actually purposeful leaning in and pressed my lips flush against his kind of kiss. It lasted longer than is socially acceptable for a total stranger. But his lips were full and warm, bigger than mine and plush in a way I wasn’t expecting. It made pulling away feel like its own punishment. But one I so clearly deserved. He didn’t follow my lips like some part of me waiting for him to. He just smirked at me like this was a fun game and stared at my lips like he’d never been kissed by a nearly bald woman before. If that’s even what I was.

“Feeling better?” He chuckled but tried not to. Teasing me was going to be easy for him.

I just nodded my head and fished out one of the small bottles from my pocket. I took a subtle sniff of it to know it was alcohol and downed it without thinking about the face I might make. I needed that jolt, though. I needed to regain some sense of myself. Although, I put the rest in his hands, even though he wasn’t planning to take them from me.

“I don’t want to break them,” I say in a voice that doesn’t sound like me before peeling out of my boots absentmindedly.

He just moved to put them on a desk against the wall near the door. It made me realize that we weren’t sneaking into the Captain’s Quarters as a prank. We were here because this was his room. A Captain. A Sixth Division Engineer’s Captain. I shouldn’t have been so surprised to piece it together considering he kept calling me Lieutenant and had been attempting to bribe me. But they weren’t going to charge him with murder. He’d be easily able to justify his actions, if anyone even bothered to look into it.

I had shucked the bloody pants by the time he had turned around to look at me. Apparently the sight of skin appalled him because he quickly turned back around and waited for me to dress. That’s never happened before. I wasn’t used to averted eyes during a task like this one. But I also wasn’t used to anyone taking note of me changing either. They were usually too quick to dismiss me when they realized I’m rather ugly under all of this fabric. It was something I was glad he didn’t know about.

I quickly pulled the pants on and tightened my own belt around my waist so they wouldn’t fall off. The difference wasn’t much, reminding me that there were other reasons men weren’t quick to look at me. I didn’t want their attention though. That might’ve been what triggered me into silence. The way that man had touched me. He risked everything I’ve spent the better part of a decade working for. I didn’t think about that until I had started putting my boots on and realized standing in a Captain’s Quarters was just as bad when it comes to ruining a name. My name. A false name. But a whole reputation.

“Are you hurt?” He moved to me with such determination that I flinched away from him.

I felt like a cornered dog. More afraid than I wished I was. Suddenly well aware of what this was going to do to my career. A career that needed to stay in place if any of us were going to survive what was coming.

“Hey,” he coos, brushing his fingers across my cheek to make me look at him. “It’s been a long night.” He brushed his thumb under my eye really slowly and I felt myself blush under his fingers. “Let’s get you back.”

But before he opened the door, he kissed me. It was like he meant to kiss me back the whole time but couldn’t bring himself to do it. I knew that from the second his lips touched mine and gently caressed them in a new type of kiss that he’d forget about me the second the sunlight broke the horizon. He should forget about me. It would be easier that way. But I fell into that kiss like he was giving me another shot in those stupid little bottles. It wasn’t more than a sip of lips, a light tasting. But it was more than being pressed flush against each other. He seemed tempted to kiss me again as he slowly pulled away. He smelled like alcohol and tasted too sweet to be anything less than top shelf liquor.

Our breath mingled for only a second before he cleared his throat and took a step back to look around his room. It was a subtle hesitation that was followed by him fixing his button up shirt and flattening the sleeves of his officer’s jacket. He handed me the trousers, hooked his arm under mine and opened the door to walk me out into the hallway. I couldn’t help but feel confused and frustrated at the same time. This wasn’t who I was and I was lucky that he was at least respectable.

He didn’t say a word to me as we walked. Well, really, it was a lot more like marching along. But he knew where to escort me. It made the walk feel rushed and the marching more mandatory. But his hand was warm under mine, a little dry and a little sweaty and his finger tapped along the back of my hand as he was lost inside his head thinking. I didn’t say anything to pull him out of it. I wasn’t sure there was anything to say. I wished that I had something to say. Anything. But the moment came and went and suddenly, without a hitch, we were standing in front of Division Three.

He started at the doors and then turned to look at me. I stared back at him, confused on what the delay could be with his hand still wrapped around mine. I realized he hadn’t let go.

“This is it, right?” He looked back at the doors briefly. “You’re wearing Purple, that’s Division Three.” He was nervous and confused because I hadn’t let go of his hand either.

“Division Three, First Class,” I said quietly with a nod of my head. But I wasn’t sure I was ready to never see this mysterious man ever again.

“Yeah,” he chuckles under his breath. But he was looking at me like I wasn’t a person. At least, I didn’t feel like a person when he looked at me like that.

I slowly let go of his hand, questioning how insane I was and whether or not he was just as insane. He didn’t take my hand back but rather let me get a few steps away before grabbing it. He pulled me in for a kiss. A deeper kiss than before but just as slow and confusing. It made me question my authority and what the Congress was going to think about this if they ever found out. I’d be beyond ruined. They might assume I’m a double agent and kill me for it. But his lips were like drugs beneath mine and the light touch of his tongue promised to ruin me through and through. We didn’t even have to know each other and I could already see how it ended. Miserably in a blazing fire of shame and regret.

I reluctantly pushed against his chest to end the kiss. He nibbled on my bottom lip like a real piece and it soured my mood in a way he didn’t intend to. He was going to ruin my reputation and everything that I’ve built. I might lose my life because of something like this and he was finding humor in it. But it was at my expense, whether or not he realized it.

“What?” He was searching my eyes for an explanation he wasn’t going to find.

“You’re going to ruin a good thing,” I whispered, still not feeling like myself.

“A good thing?” He was smirking at me and his gaze dipped to my lips again.

I knew better than to say anything else as I suddenly found myself scurrying inside like he’d follow me for whatever reason. But he didn’t. Of course he didn’t. It wasn’t worth the scandal. I wasn’t worth being chased anyway. I nearly sprinted down the hallways, running from some feeling I’ve never had to confront before. All running did was remind me how I’d never make it very far. Life had a way of reminding a person of their mortality and their ability in life. I clearly didn’t have all that much if I were still a nobody.

[godzilla-reads]

Gargoyle Books for Grotesques

God Bless the Gargoyles by Dave Pilkey- A cute and thoughtful book on the history of gargoyles and their friendship with angels. It has nice art AND it rhymes!

2. Holy Terrors: Gargoyles on Medieval Buildings by Janetta Rebold Benton- A very nice book full of pictures of our favorite grotesques and gargoyles.

3. The Amulet of Samarkand (The Bartimaeus Trilogy #1) by Jonathan Stroud- A young boy, desperate to prove himself as a magician, secretly summons Bartimaeus, and compels the djinn to steal the Amulet of Samarkand.

4. The Gargoyle Overhead by Philippa Dowding-What if your best friend was a naughty 400-year-old gargoyle? And what if he just happened to be in terrible danger? It’s not always easy, but thirteen-year-old Katherine Newberry is friends with a gargoyle

5. Night of the Gargoyles by Eve Bunting and David Wiesner- Moody, charcoal-powder drawings dramatize a tale of the secret life of gargoyles.

6. Song of the Gargoyle by Zilpha Keatley Snyder- A strange sound awakens thirteen-year-old Tymmon in the dead of night. In a blink of an eye his father, the court jester of Austerneve, is mysteriously kidnapped and the terrified boy must slip away secretly to avoid capture himself.Hiding in the dreaded forest nearby, Tymmon is adopted by a huge, furry, dog-like creature--a gargoyle--who has the loyalty of a dog and the fearsome powers of an enchanted being.

7. The Accidental Alchemist by Gigi Pandian- Looking for a new start, immortal alchemist Zoe Faust stumbles upon a gargoyle who needs her help.

8. The Gargoyles of Notre-Dame: Medievalism and the Monsters of Modernity by Michael Camille- Most of the seven million people who visit the cathedral of Notre Dame in Paris each year probably do not realize that the legendary gargoyles adorning this medieval masterpiece were not constructed until the nineteenth century. 

9. The Gargoyle on the Roof by Jack Prelutsky- I love Prelutsky's books and this one has 17 10. poems you'll love.

10. Anthony and the Gargoyle by Jo Ellen Bogart and Maja Kastelic- A boy befriends a baby gargoyle in this magical wordless story in graphic-novel style.

[tabbyrp]

Day 21: Trick or Treat

"The laughter of children filled the crisp air while off-beat rhythms of knocks and door bells mixed with a chorus of "trick or treat" that sang out into the early evening." — Amber Newberry, One Night in Salem

[beardedmrbean]

Three University of Virginia star football players have been identified as the victims allegedly killed by a fellow student and former college football player in a mass shooting on the campus.

Linebacker D’Sean Perry, 22; Lavel Davis Jr, and Devin Chandler died on Sunday night when suspected gunman Christopher Darnell Jones allegedly opened fire around a parking garage on the university’s main campus along Culbreth Road in Charlottesville.

On Monday, Davis’s father Lavel Davis Sr wrote, “Lord please help me,” on Facebook, the Richmond Times-Dispatch reported. Davis, who was 6’7” tall, ranked No 2 in the nation and No 1 in the Atlantic Coast Conference for average yards per reception after the 2020 football season, the Associated Press reported.

He had returned to the field this year after suffering an injury in 2021. He was on a watch list for 2022 Comeback Player of the Year, per the AP.

Perry’s grieving father Sean Perry also confirmed his son’s death to the Richmond Times-Dispatch and said that he and the victim’s mother Happy were flying from their hometown of Miami to Virginia.

Perry, who was 6’3” tall and weighed 230 pounds, was a linebacker and defensive end for the Virginia Cavaliers football team – the same University of Virginia team that Mr Jones made the roster for back in 2018.

The 22-year-old football star played just hours before his death, when his team took on Pittsburgh on Saturday.

According to a profile on the Virginia Cavalliers website, Perry previously played linebacker, defensive line and tight end at Gulliver Prep and was named the South Florida Conference’s 2018 Defensive Player of the Year.

He also made the Team USA under-19s team and appeared in the International Bowl in Dallas, Texas.

After graduating high school, he majored in studio art at the University of Virginia.

Head football coach Tony Elliott said early Monday afternoon that the victims “were all good kids” and he would speak about them when the time is right.

Sean Lampkin, an assistant football coach at Newberry College, confirmed that his cousin Davis was also killed in the shooting.

He paid tribute to the wide receiver as “one of his most kind, humble, loving soldiers” and said that his family is “devastated” by the news.

“Saddening, saddening news this morning. God took one of his most kind, humble, loving soldiers off of the battlefield last night. Please pray for my family as we are devastated by the passing my cousin Lavel Davis Jr. Love and already miss you, kid,” he tweeted.

As a talented wide receiver, Davis was added to the 2022 Comeback Player of the Year Watch List just last month.

Jack Hamilton, a professor at UVA, said on Twitter that both Chandler and Davis were in his class and remembered the students as “wonderful people.”

“[D]evin was new to UVA last spring (he was a transfer student) and I had him in a large lecture class. he nevertheless made a point to come to my office hours repeatedly, often just to ask questions about how things worked around uva,” Mr Hamilton tweeted about Chandler.

“Later I helped him declare his American studies major, which he was really excited about. he was an unbelievably nice person, always a huge smile, really gregarious and funny. one of those people who’s just impossible not to like. It is so sad and enraging that he is gone.”

Mr Hamilton also said about Davis: “One thing that struck me about vel was how much his classmates liked him and vice versa. in my experience star athletes often tend to hang out with other athletes (understandable, given the time commitment) but vel seemed to go out of his way to make friends with non-athletes

Originally from Dorchester, South Carolina, Davis played wide receiver and safety at Woodland High School before he was selected to play in South Carolina’s North-South all-star game.

The two victims wounded in the mass shooting are yet to be publicly identified.

It is not clear if the victims knew their alleged killer or if the shooting rampage was targeted or carried out at random.

UVA Police Chief Timothy Longo revealed on Monday that a UVA multidisciplinary threat assessment team launched an investigation after receiving reports that Mr Jones made comments about owning a gun to an individual unaffiliated with the university.

Mr Longo said that Mr Jones had not made threats at the time, but simply mentioned he had a firearm.

“Because I want to be transparent with you, I want you to know … Mr Jones came to the attention of the University of Virginia’s threat assessment team in the fall of 2022,” Mr Longo said. “They received information that Mr Jones had made a comment about possessing a gun to a person that was unaffiliated with the university.”

It is unclear how the investigation unfolded, but Mr Longo said that the individual in question and Mr Jones’ roommate, who did not see the gun, were questioned. Mr Longo also mentioned that Mr Jones had been investigated in connection to an alleged hazing incident but the inquiry fell apart after witnesses did not come forward with information.

The team learned that Mr Jones had violated protocol by not informing the university about a criminal incident in February 2021 in which he had been involved. The criminal investigation took place outside of Charlottesville and was in relation to a concealed weapon violation, NBC reported.

An hours-long manhunt took place for Mr Jones, a 22-year-old student and former football player for the college, before his arrest was announced just before 11am on Monday.

He was last seen wearing a burgundy jacket, blue jeans and red shoes and was thought to have been driving a black SUV with the licence plate TWX3580, police said.

A campus-wide lockdown was lifted on Monday morning after students had been told to shelter in place and warned not to approach the “armed and dangerous” suspect.

Multiple law enforcement agencies were drafted in for the search, with a Virginia State Police helicopter circling the area and classes cancelled for Monday across the university.

University of Virginia Police tweeted on Monday morning that law enforcement teams were carrying out a “complete search on and around UVA grounds”.

The shooting unfolded at around 10.30pm on Sunday at the parking garage before Mr Jones allegedly went on the run.

Three victims were killed while another two were wounded and taken to hospital for treatment, with their conditions unclear at this time.

Sophomore student Em Gunter told the Times-Dispatch that she was watching a lecture in her dorm room when she heard six gunshots ring out at around 10.15pm.

The 19-year-old lives in the International Residential College, located across from Culbreth Road where the shooting took place.

She quickly messaged the other 350 students in her dorm building warning them to stay inside and hunkered down with her friends in her room.

“I just have no words. This is insane,” she said.

Ms Gunter told the paper that she used to live in Southwest Virginia which was the site of the 2007 Virginia Tech mass shooting.

According to a profile for Mr Jones on the Virginia Cavaliers website – the University of Virginia’s football team – he was on the team roster in 2018 but did not appear in any games that year.

The bio lists the 22-year-old’s numerous accolades and honours during high school.

He was described as a played linebacker and running back at Petersburg High School who “earned honorable mention all-conference honors as a senior”.

He spent his first three years of high school at Varina High School “where he earned honorable mention all-conference as a freshman and second-team accolades as a sophomore and junior”, the bio says.

Mr Jones was a “member of the National Honor Society … National Technical Honor Society … president of Key Club … president of Jobs for Virginia Grads Program … named Student of the Year as a freshman and sophomore at Varina … son of Margo Ellis and Christopher Jones, Sr. … has three siblings, Eliza, Darrius and Varian,” the bio reads.

The 22-year-old was previously hailed as something of a success story after overcoming something of a troubled childhood to become a model student.

One of four siblings, he grew up in housing complexes in Richmond, according to a 2018 Times-Dispatch story.

Mr Jones’ father abandoned the family when he was a boy and he reportedly got into trouble at school for fighting.

But, the “smart and quiet” student appeared to turn things around, playing football and graduating from Petersburg in 2018.

As news spread of the campus shooting, Virginia Governor Glenn Youngkin released a statement saying he was “praying” for the university community.

“Suzanne and I are praying for the UVA community. Virginia State Police is fully coordinating with UVA police department and local authorities,” he tweeted on Monday.

“Please shelter in place while the authorities work to locate the suspect.

[joankho]

How the verdict in Sim Ke Ting's case drew an outcry from activists and protesters on social media in Malaysia?

Social Media Activism

Social media activism is a type of online protest or advocacy for a certain cause (Newberry 2022). Because hashtags are so important in mobilizing movements on social media, the terms hashtag activism and hashtag activism are sometimes used interchangeably.

Activists And Protesters On Social Media In Malaysia

In today's networked media world, people can build groups to protest against something through the Internet. A Malaysian woman, Sim Ke Ting, accidentally hit 16 teenagers on her way home at night on the highway, causing eight death, two of them severe injuries and six of them minor injuries in 2017 (Timothy 2022). On March 28, 2017, the court found Shen Keting's not guilty of reckless driving. In 2019, the families of the 16 teenagers appealed again but argued that the defendant was wearing a seat belt, not using a cell phone, not speeding, and had the right of way, and that no warning was given at the time, so the offense was again acquitted.

But unexpectedly in 2022, this April, the family appealed again to Sim Ke Ting. This time, the judge found Sim Ke Ting guilty of reckless or dangerous driving causing death (Bernama 2022). She was sentenced to six years in prison and fined RM6,000. The case was posted online and on social media, causing a mass outcry from the public.

The majority of the internet users fought for Sim Ke Ting, saying that she was not at fault and that she was driving normally and not breaking the law. Most of the netizens scolded and opposed the parents who sued, saying that it was their own poor discipline that allowed their children to ride illegally that caused the accident. Many netizens organized and voted on social media platforms to oppose the conviction of Sim Ke Ting, a move that received widespread support and participation from netizens. The topic was followed at the time. After the verdict was announced, two petitions for the release of Sim Ke Ting appeared on Change.org, one of which stated that by 2019 the Traffic Tribunal had found that Sim Ke Ting had been driving safely and had not done anything illegal at the time of the incident (Bernama 2022). However, the accident was caused by a very dark, bumpy, and winding road, and the fact that she could not have predicted the 3 a.m. bike party. In less than a day after the two joint signatures were released, 250,000 signatures have already been accumulated.

Conclusion

Shen Ke Ting is currently appealing and has paid the fees to resign from prison, and the case is still ongoing. This shows that the power of digital activism is as great as the unity of ants, as exemplified by the above real-life events. Are you one of the digital activists and protester in the case of Sim Ke Ting or in other aspects?

Referencing

Bernama 2022, ‘Case management of Sam Ke Ting's appeal in Basikal Lajak case pushed to Oct 13, MalaysiaNow, Viewed 14 October 2022, <https://www.malaysianow.com/news/2022/08/29/case-management-of-sam-ke-tings-appeal-in-basikal-lajak-case-pushed-to-oct-13>. 

Newberry, C 2022, ‘Social Media Activism in 2022: How to go beyond the hashtag’, Social Media Marketing & Management Dashboard, viewed 14 October 2022, <https://blog.hootsuite.com/social-media-activism/#:~:text=Social%20media%20activism%20is%20an,used%20interchangeably%20with%20hashtag%20activism>.

Timothy Achariam 2022, ‘Sri Ram to lead Sam Ke Ting's appeal in Basikal Lajak case, Court of Appeal told, The Edge Markets’ , theedgemarkets, Viewed 14 October 2022, <https://www.theedgemarkets.com/article/sri-ram-lead-sam-ke-tings-appeal-basikal-lajak-case-court-appeal-told>.

[sophisticated-creepy]

The only thing Lola had to worry about in regards to her birthday weekend, according to Raphael, was that she prepare a small overnight bag for herself, otherwise, every detail and arrangement had been handled. All she needed to do was sit back, relax, and enjoy the experience, but Lola could hardly think about relaxing once she learned the plans for her upcoming birthday celebration. For one, the party was on the weekend, and there were many days to get through between now and then, so instead of focusing on any of her work for the remainder of the week, Lola occupied her time relearning all she could of the Northcott Manor House. She dug into her old research files, brushed up on the Northcott lineage, and poured herself into what stories the newspaper archives had preserved to reacquaint herself with the cannery mogul and his wife.

          She was so completely wrapped up in all of her research and study that she hadn’t realized it was the day of her party until she felt feather light lips on her neck, gently kissing her awake to a golden morning of song birds while being held in the embrace of her caring lover.

          “Good morning,” Raphael greeted, his voice a notch lower and more rumbled due to sleep still lingering in his throat. “Happy birthday,” he added, nuzzling Lola closer to him.

          “Good morning,” she replied, content and cozy, “and thank you.” She smiled, still half asleep, and burrowed deeper in the pocket of warmth created by their bodies and many blankets.

          “Is the birthday girl ready to start her day?”

          “Five more minutes,” Lola answered through a powerful yawn. She hugged his arm that was wrapped around her closer to her body, trapping him into continuing their shared morning snuggle, however, the cruel timing of her stomach grumbling broke the quiet intimacy.

          “Hungry?” Raphael asked.

          Lola could feel the smile on his lips as he returned to kiss the column of her neck while he asked the obvious question. “I’m not ready to leave,” she declared, and she squeezed a touch tighter of his arm, refusing to relinquish the gentle realm of comforting softness cocooned in blankets that was created in their shared bed.

          “You don’t have to leave, for I can bring breakfast to you,” he offered. “What can I make my little dandelion for a birthday morning meal?”

          “Hmm,” Lola hummed, her tone theatrical and playful. She let go of his arm to turn her body around so she was directly looking at Raphael, a teasing grin upon her lips. “I would enjoy some French toast in bed.”

          “One order of French toast coming right up,” Raphael said, leaning forward to place a kiss on Lola’s forehead. When he began to pull away to start breakfast, Lola reached out for him, her hands taking hold of his wrists, staying him in an awkward position of being halfway out of bed and half hovering over her. He stared down at her, his eyebrows in a quizzical furrow.

          “Where are you going, French toast?” she asked, a slight blush rising to her cheeks while her thumbs brushed along his arms where she still held him. A sly smirk spread on Raphael’s face, reading her unspoken desires loud and clear, so he lowered himself back into bed, where Lola welcomed him with open arms as he disappeared under the covers.  

~*~*~*~*~*~

          Raphael returned to the bedroom after the pre-breakfast appetizer with a tray piled high with, according to his beloved, his “world famous French toast”, and two glasses of orange juice. As he shouldered the door fully open, he saw Lola returning to the bed itself from the adjoining en-suite, her red, tousled hair framing her head like a lion’s mane, wild and uninhibited. She had slipped into her favorite fuzzy pink bathrobe, the sash having gone missing, but a smile crept to his lips when he remembered where he saw it last.

          “What’s that grin for?” Lola asked, seeing him standing in the doorway as she climbed into bed, a secret grin to himself plastered across his face.

          “Only that I love you,” he replied, shaking himself out of his ardent thoughts. “I come bearing gifts.”

          “The best kind,” Lola laughed, her mouth beginning to water for the tasty treats.

          Ever the gallant knight, Raphael sauntered into the room, setting the tray down in front of Lola in the middle of the bed. He then sat himself across from her with an elegant fold to his legs so they could begin digging into breakfast. Lola couldn’t help but beam at the care and panache Raphael displayed in making her feel celebrated, and the single red rose on the tray table helped to soften her broad smile of delight into one of loving tenderness. She picked up the rose, smelling it, her heart blooming open like the soft petals before her.

          “Are you ready for tonight?” Raphael asked, referring to the mystery dinner theater they were to attend later that evening.

          “You better believe it,” she said while setting the rose on her nightstand. “There are just so many hours between now and tonight, I don’t know what I’m going to do to occupy my time.”

          “’Idle hands’,” he chuckled. “Hopefully it won’t be too insufferable of a wait for you.”

          “The anticipation will only make it that much better,” Lola quipped around a forkful of French toast. “How do you make these taste so good?” she moaned, practically melting as the warm, buttery bread hit all the right notes on her tongue’s palate.

          “That is a secret I will never tell,” he stated. He caught the glimmer of challenge sparkle in Lola’s eyes, and he couldn’t stop the twitch of his lips even if he tried, knowing full well that inciting her with an “unattainable mystery” made her light up with mischievous schemes for play. “Unfortunately, there are some obligatory errands I need to take care of today.”

          “Oh? What do you have to do?”

          “I need to run by the Renaissance faire grounds to pick up a packet from HR, but then I’ll be straight home,” he answered.

          “That’s right! The Ren Faire starts up next weekend. Are you ready to reprise your role, Mr. White Knight of the jousting ring?”

          “Provided I have your favor.”

          “For now and for always,” she declared, and leaned over the breakfast tray to give him a kiss, his lips an intoxicating taste of cinnamon and sugar.

          “Now, don’t think I don’t know how important it is for you to carve out some alone time to journal during special occasions, and your birthday is no exception, which is why I have a surprise for you.” Raphael got up from the bed, taking Lola’s hand as he did, and led her out of their bedroom down the hallway towards her crafting room. He stopped them just outside the doorway, then placed her in front of him so he could cover her eyes so as not to ruin the grand reveal of his surprise. Lola giggled, trusting her fiancé wholeheartedly as he guided her into the craft room, and after drawing out a theatrical countdown, which served its purpose in ramping up her anticipation for what awaited her, he removed his hands with a dramatic flourish. Lola blinked a few times, adjusting her sight, and gasped when she saw a large gift bag on her writing desk done up in an array of pretty tissue paper with a single, long stemmed rose poking out of the wrappings.

          “Honey love, what is this?” Lola asked, stunned at the gift that seemed to magically appear overnight.

          “A birthday present,” he informed. “Open it,” he then encouraged, prodding her forward. Lola floated towards her writing desk and sat in her swivel chair, placing the impressive gift bag in her lap, and spun around to face Raphael, who was leaning against the doorframe, watching her with the look of a lover’s expectation as she balanced the present upon her thighs. She took out the rose first so as not to damage it, and gave the bloom a quick smell and a kiss before setting it on the desk. Then, she pawed through the waves of tissue paper to fully unveil her present.

          “No way!” she declared, spotting the hidden items. “Stickers!” she proclaimed, holding up the booklets of cozy-themed stickers. “And they’re from my favorite designer. And look! Fancy tape,” she next gasped, “and a boxset of rubber stamps themed in cottagecore and my favorite brand of pens! This is all too much!” Lola spun her chair in circles, hugging her new treasures close to her chest.

          Raphael laughed, his heart swelling with love at the display of her joyous expressions. “I guess now you’ll have something to occupy your time before the party tonight.”

          “You stinker,” Lola chastised without malice, stopping her chair to face him head on. “You had this all planned out.”

          “Of course I did,” he affirmed, his chest puffed out in pride, and walked fully into the room. “That’s what happens when one knows the love of his life so well.” He had reached her chair, leaning forward to place his hands on the armrests, and Lola took her cue to kiss him.

          “Thank you,” she said once their lips parted. “This is absolutely the most perfect gift. I love it, and you.”

          “You’re welcome. Happy birthday,” and he kissed her breathless again. “I simply ask that when you journal about your generous bounty from the man of your waking dreams, that you write only good things about me.”

          “Don’t I always?” she joked.

          “I don’t know, I haven’t read that far in yet.” He laughed, her expression of horror as if a deer frozen in headlights spurring on his mirth. “I’m teasing you,” he assuaged. “Your secrets are safe. Now, how about you come downstairs and help make coffee with me?”

          Lola visibly relaxed and gave Raphael a half-hearted glare before accepting his hand to help make the hot morning beverage. Upon entering the kitchen, Lola found another long stemmed rose in one of her favorite coffee mugs that sat innocently next to the coffee maker. She had a suspicious feeling she was going to be finding roses hidden throughout the house, and sure enough, by the end of the day, as she and Raphael were heading out the door for the Northcott Manor House mystery dinner theater, there was a full vase on the kitchen table with the same amount of roses equaling to her age.

          The drive to the Manor House was entertaining, at least from Raphael’s perspective, for Lola could only sit perched on the edge of the passenger seat, chatting idly and listlessly for the duration of the ride, and then practically threw herself out of the car once the vehicle pulled into a parking spot. The engine might have still been running, but at least the ride had come to a complete stop.

          “I wonder if anyone else is here yet,” Lola questioned while she waited for Raphael to get out of the car.

          “Happy birthday, Lola!” came a shout from a familiar voice across the small parking lot. Turning towards the exclamation, Lola caught a glimpse of her two oldest and dearest friends approaching her, Modesta carrying a gift bag topped with fancy paper, and Jack, his camcorder.

          “Jack,” Lola said with a laugh after she pulled away from a warm hug with Modesta. “Why are you filming?”

          “This is my birthday present for you,” Jack replied, ducking and weaving in the space around the others to capture every dramatic angle. “I’m filming what is sure to be a most spooky experience so you can relive this moment whenever you want.”

          “That’s a very thoughtful gift, Jack, thank you,” and Lola shared a hug with him next.

          “And this is my gift to you,” Modesta said, offering up the gift bag. “I received a shipment of these a few days ago and I knew you had to have one.”

          “Thank you, Mo,” Lola said, her smile beaming as she accepted the gift bag. “Should I open it now or wait until later?”

          “Let’s wait until later, Lazare isn’t here yet,” Raphael said. As his words were spoken, a new vehicle entered the parking lot and pulled into the empty slot next to Modesta’s car. Shortly after, Lazare came out of the driver’s side, apologies on his lips as he scurried towards the cluster of friends.

          “Sorry I’m late,” he said on an exhale of breath. “I came straight from the pawn shop, and traffic was backed up. Why is Jack filming me?” he asked, confused as Jack crouched low, then high in a strange dance of cinematography.

          “Pretend I don’t exist,” Jack instructed, zooming in on the semi-frightened portrait of the newest friend to enter the scene.

          “Believe me, I already do,” Lazare sassed, but his sarcasm fostered no ill-will. “Moving right along…this is for you, Lola. Happy birthday!” Lazare held out a small rectangular box, offering the wrapped parcel to Lola, to which she thanked him with a big smile and matching embrace. Raphael, after looking to his watch, took charge of the group, and began to herd them all towards the Manor House where dinner and a show waited for no one. After giving his name to the hostess, the friends soon found themselves seated at a long, linen covered banquet table tucked at one end near the corner of the dining room, where similar tables lined the walls, filled with other guests who spoke with each other in soft conversation, waiting for the show, and dinner, to begin.

          Lola sat at the head of the table, her back to the wall, giving her a full view of the room. Her eyes roved over every gilded inch of space, taking in the soft glow of the electric chandeliers, the light glinting off the shiny surfaces of marble and crystal. Paintings of regal portraits dotted the spaces between accent mirrors, their eyes seeming to bore into her soul, smug in keeping their secrets behind their immortal, thinly painted lips. The wait staff circulated the dining room, taking care of diners’ drink orders, and in a matter of minutes, Lola had a glass of wine in hand, clinking edges with her fiancé, absorbed in the ambiance of the glittering room filled with light and laughter. A warm palm on her right forearm brought her out of her trance, and she turned her attention to Raphael beside her.

          “Is it everything you hoped it would be?” he asked.

          His smile melted her insides, her heart captivated from the candlelight sparkling in his azure colored eyes. “It is,” she said. “I’ve never been here at night. It’s magical.”

          Raphael leaned towards her, drawn to the enchanting glow of candlelight reflecting in her own eyes. “From what I’ve gathered about tonight’s performance,” he began, “is that the actors will perform in-the-round, so everyone here will be able to experience the whole production in a more intimate setting.”

          “Does that mean there will be some audience participation?” Lola asked, preparing to play the part of inspector detective to help solve the soon-to-be murder mystery.

          Raphael laughed. “There might be, but knowing your propensity for mischief, I’m sure you will find a way to weasel yourself into the show.”

          “What can I say? I like to be part of the story,” she admitted with a lift of her shoulders.

          “And that’s what makes you so dangerous,” he said, leaning in closer, the heat of his body twining with her own.

          “You do enjoy playing with fire,” she bantered in reply, helping to close the distance until she felt his breath fan her neck.

          “Is it my fault the flames of your passion are so…alluring?” His nose ghosted over a tender spot below her ear, causing her to shiver as he breathed in her scent of amber and vanilla.

          “The way you stoke the flames, I’m surprised I haven’t set the world on fire.”

          “My world is ablaze.” His hand had moved from her forearm to her thigh as his lips brushed against her jaw, and although the allegory was directed towards her being of fire, she was the one finding herself burning.

          “Hey, I’m all for exuberant PDA’s,” said Jack after a slight uncomfortable cough, “but if you both keep that up, this is going to turn into a wildly different movie, and that’s something I’m a touch squeamish about filming of my friends.” He gave his camcorder a little shake, emphasizing his point, while Modesta and Lazare snickered quietly to one another. Lola’s face tinged red with embarrassment, not because of her lover’s closeness, but merely from the fact she forgot there were others in the room with her at all. Raphael had the uncanny ability of making her feel she was the only person in a room, for whenever he fixed his attention solely on her, the rest of the world tended to fade away.

          Raphael was undeterred by Jack’s comment, and with a haughty scoff, said, “Film away,” and planted a kiss straight to Lola’s lips. The quiet snickering turned into full on laughter as Lola reached for her glass of ice water once Raphael settled back a respectable distance with a triumphant smirk crooking his mouth. To stave off the growing arousal her fiancé so expertly coaxed of her, she darted her eyes around the room for any type of distraction from her mind’s otherwise romantic thoughts, the mere glance towards him being enough to unravel her self-control to end the night immediately for special birthday evening activities---the charming devil. He was too good at disarming her completely, burrowing into her heart beyond capacity to overflow and burst with love. Peering over her glass as she gulped down half her beverage, Lola noticed a man staring at her from the foyer through the entryway which opened up and led guests into the dining room.

          What surprised her most wasn’t only the fact he was staring into her soul with a focused, unblinking gaze, but rather, his attire, for he wore a tweed cap, white button front shirt, and suspenders that were secured to the waistband of navy blue wool slacks. He looked as if he had stepped out of a movie that took place on the city streets of the 1920’s, and she half expected him to start bellowing at the diners to collect their evening newspaper from him. She watched as he placed a lit cigarette to his lips and turned to disappear from view deeper into the foyer hallway.

          “I think the show is about to start,” Lola said to her friends once the figure vanished.

          “Is it already seven o’clock?” Modesta asked, looking at her watch to confirm the time.

          “Let’s call it a hunch,” Lola replied. As if on cue, the wait staff entered the dining room, wheeling out on linen covered carts salads for the appetizer course of the set menu, and following behind them, a tall, slender man in a brown three piece suit, trench coat, and hat stepped into the center of the room.

          “Ah! Good and pleasant folk, I’m so glad you’re here,” began the man, addressing the whole of the room, and as he pulled from his coat pocket a small notepad and pen, a police badge pinned to his vest flashed from the candlelight. “My name is Detective Charles Babcock, and I’ve been summoned here this night to help solve an attempted crime of passion: murder.”

          “I’m so excited,” Lola whispered, clutching onto Raphael’s arm in her exuberance for potential homicide.

          “As I am just one man, I can’t possibly get a straight story from the suspects on my list,” the detective continued, tapping his pen against his notepad as he swept around the room to deliver his dialogue. “Even if I could get them all to the station for questioning, I’m down to one team member who hasn’t quit on me…yet. So,” he stressed, opening his arms wide to the diners in a grand gesture, “you fine folk are my unofficial-official gumshoes. Do you agree to help me solve this case?” The crowd replied by cheering loudly and applauding. “All right, that’s what I like. Enthusiasm! Okay, folks, let’s start with our first suspect, the one who called in the crime, the parlor maid Miss Honeyworth.”

          With a fling of his arm towards the main foyer, a buxom brunette in fishnets wearing a scintillating outfit of black and white lace flounced into the room. She dusted the air with her feather duster while adjusting a tiny cap pinned to the mountain of tight ringlets on top of her head. The audience laughed at her comedic appearance and over the top French accent, the detective goading the crowd reactions by acting tongue tied and flustered. The table where Lola and the others sat was served their appetizers as the detective was trying to question the parlor maid through innuendoes and accidental pickup lines, much to the confusion of the current suspect, who answered with her own equally embarrassing double entendres, delivering the punchline of their bit, much to the amusement of the audience. By the time Lola’s salad plate was set in front of her, she had taken out a notepad and pen from her purse, already having jotted down bullet points of observations and takeaways, and resting at the edge of the table, microphone facing the cast members, was the ever-faithful tape recorder Stanley.

          “You know Jack is filming this. Why the need for Stanley?” Raphael asked, leaning towards Lola to ask his question in a quiet tone so as not to disrupt the performers.

          “Stanley never misses anything,” Lola said, her reply matter of fact. “While it’s good to have visual evidence, you risk the lens being pointed in the wrong direction, or filming out of focus. But Stanley captures it all.”

          “Let’s hope a breeze doesn’t obstruct the audio,” he teased.

          “Don’t you dare jinx Stanley,” she scolded with a frown. “He hasn’t failed me yet.” She felt him bump his knee into hers, signaling a truce and intending no ill-will towards the little silver box resting between them. His smile was playful and she relaxed, both of them returning to their salads as well as their attentions to the animated figures of the comedy troupe.

          “And then I heard a big crash. Boom!” the parlor maid explained, gesturing grandly with a large circular motion of her arms.

          “Where did the noise come from?” asked the detective.

          “From the library,” she answered. “So, I quickly ran to see what happened, but the doors were closed and locked.” The audience laughed as the character trotted in a semi-circle to then mime struggling to open a pair of locked doors. “But then, they opened!” More laughter came as she stumbled backwards, breathless. “And guess who was behind the library doors?”

          “Who?” Detective Babcock asked, pen poised to take her statement.

          “Mr. Garfield, our head butler.”

          Lola looked to her friends at the table, where they all met each other’s gazes in silent agreement knowing full well that the classic butler trope had indeed “done it”.

          “Then what happened?” pressed Detective Babcock.

          “I don’t know,” shrugged Miss Honeyworth. “Mr. Garfield instructed I phone the police, so I left to call you.”

          “A wise thing you did,” agreed the detective, “but, you said there was an attempted murder when you phoned me. Why make such a serious claim?”

          “Because,” she sobbed, “I saw Mr. Fernsby, our employer, face down on the ground. He looked as if…as if….” She couldn’t finish her statement. Instead, she burst into a mournful wail, burying her face into a handkerchief she procured from her bosom while the detective embraced her in an awkward side-hug, flummoxed in trying his best to console her.

          “I understand,” he soothed, patting her shoulder. “You did the right thing by calling. Now, if Mr. Fernsby was lying on the ground, surely he must not have gotten there by accident. Be a kind soul and fetch me your Mr. Garfield.”

          Lola observed as the parlor maid, who, with a large sniffle and a nod, pranced out of the room, exiting through a side entrance, where on the outskirts, the newspaper man character was stationed. His eyes remained fixed towards the middle of the dining room, oblivious to the woman who flitted past him. Curious, Lola jotted down his character in her notepad, circling the words “newspaper man”, her movement catching Raphael’s notice. When she saw his raised eyebrow of question, she jutted her chin in the direction of where the cast member had been leaning casually against the wall, only to find that he had disappeared.

          “I’ll explain later,” she whispered to him, to which Raphael shrugged in acceptance and went back to eating his salad, Lola following suit despite her focus being pulled distractedly to the shadowy corner where the newspaper character had only just been standing. She drew her attention to the play actors at hand once the butler, who had entered the scene, began speaking.

          “We were discussing affairs of the household,” Mr. Garfield was explaining, “per our routine every evening after dinner.” The butler Garfield was a tall, overwhelming character, towering above the detective by a good two feet or more. He was imposing, but mild mannered, with sleepy eyes and a perpetual frown, unhurried and unbothered even in the face of such a dire predicament.

          “Then, why was he on the floor?” the detective questioned.

          “He wasn’t there to begin with.”

          “The ‘loud crash’, as was stated by your colleague, came from the locked room you and the victim occupied. Explain that,” he challenged.

          “The doors are always locked during our interviews to prevent unwanted visitors observing those delicate conversations. As for the ‘loud crash’, that did not come from the library, but the kitchen.” A low murmur bubbled from the diners as the new information was presented.

          “The kitchen, you say. Interesting. Very interesting. Then, how, exactly, did your employer wind up on the floor?” asked the detective.

          “I don’t know. That’s why I instructed Miss Honeyworth to phone the police. One minute he was standing, the next, he was prone.”

          “It appears to me I need to be speaking next with your chef. Where is he?”

    ��     “I assume the kitchen.” Mr. Garfield bowed, excusing himself from the dining room.

          “Well, this is quite a pickle, don’t you think, gumshoes?” The audience agreed.

          “Detective! Detective! I have news!” Miss Honeyworth burst into the room, tripping over herself and falling into the detective as she approached him. “Whoopsies!” she tittered as he caught her up in his arms.

          “N-news, you say?” he stammered, trying his hardest to avoid slinking to the ground himself while his knees knocked together in a boyish, amorous reaction to her closeness.

          She righted herself, using his shoulders to push herself up to regain balance. “Yes! You have a phone call. Your partner is on the line with an urgent request.”

          “He never calls unless it is an emergency. Lead me to your phone, Mademoiselle.” The parlor maid left briskly, the lawman close on her tail, the audience applauding as they exited the dining room. Their departure signaled the end of the first act, the Manor House staff entering to clear away plates and refill beverages while the diners broke out into quiet, speculative conversation.

          “Okay, can we all agree that the butler did it?” Lola asked, turning to her friends.

          “Oh, obviously,” Modesta said.

          “The butler always commits the crime,” Jack added.

          “I’m with Jack, it’s got to be the butler,” Lazare agreed.

          “I’m more curious as to this,” Raphael shared, pointing to the circled name on Lola’s notepad. “Who’s ‘newspaper man’? We haven’t met any character like him so far.”

          “Oh! He’s a cast member that’s floating around in the wings,” Lola began to explain, waving her hand to indicate the dining room. “He’s just on the sidelines, watching the show, but he’s dressed like a newspaper man from an old-timey street corner. He’s got a cap, and suspenders, and this old fashioned air about him.”

          “He sounds interesting. I wonder what role he’ll play in this mystery,” Lazare said.

          “What position would a house staffer have to be dressed like that?” Modesta asked.

          “Maybe a gardener?” Lola guessed after a moment of thought.

          “Or a maintenance man?” Raphael suggested next. “Perhaps he’s the director observing the cast from the shadows.”

          “In costume?” Lola asked.

          “So as not to be a distraction.”

          “Maybe,” Lola mused, sipping at her wine. “I hope we get to meet this person during the next act. His character might just be the key in solving Detective Babcock’s case.”

          As conversations continued, the wait staff succeeded in clearing the diners of their salad plates, making the transition into the main course of eggplant parmesan on a bed of spaghetti seem as effortless as breathing, and once the staff departed from the dining room, the play continued with act two.

          “This isn’t good, gumshoes, not good,” Detective Babcock announced as he energetically entered the scene. He began to pace in front of the fireplace while rubbing his chin in thought, distressed and clearly agitated. “I just got off the phone with my partner down at the precinct. It seems someone made an anonymous call to the tip line about the murder of Mr. Fernsby.” The audience gasped at the news, taken aback, and instantly began whispering their questions and confusions to one another.

          “I need to speak with the chef, and I need to speak with him now. Ah, Mr. Garfield. Have you brought in your chef?” Detective Babcock asked as the grave butler entered the dining room.

          “I’m afraid I have not, Detective,” Mr. Garfield drawled. “I instead have come to inform you that Mr. Fernsby appears to have been…misplaced.”

          “’Misplaced’?”

          “He is not where I left him.”

          “Was he moved? Did he get up and walk away under his own power?” Detective Babcock asked in a frantic string of questions to the stoic, unmoving butler.

          “I don’t know, but I shall go and find him for you,” and once again, Mr. Garfield bowed low before making his exit.

          “See to it that you do,” harrumphed the detective, “and send in the chef for questioning, for goodness sake’s,” he called after the departing character, and then, with a heavy sigh, announced, “I need a stiff drink.”

          “Did someone say ‘stiff’?” Miss Honeyworth entered the dining room. She had a silver tray in her hands with a small glass filled with red colored liquid balancing on top. “I made you my specialty nightcap, in case you were feeling stressed.” She offered the tray up to the detective in hopes he would accept her offering.

          “Thank you, Miss Honeyworth,” he said, taking the beverage, “but I think I’ll save my drink until after I’m off the clock,” and he placed the glass on the fireplace mantel, declining the beverage.

          “Oh,” Miss Honeyworth pouted. “That is okay.” She began sniffling, hugging the empty tray to her chest. “I figured it would help you relax. Mr. Fernsby always seemed to like my nightcaps.” She began to turn away before Detective Babcock stopped her.

          “Wait a minute! Fernsby drank these?”

          “Yes. I would make him one after dinner every night. He would take it with him into his meetings with Mr. Garfield.”

          “Miss Honeyworth, did you make him your specialty nightcap tonight?” he asked.

          “No, not tonight,” Miss Honeyworth answered. There was a tense pause before she spoke next. “But the chef did!”

          “The chef?”

          “I’ll go find him!” and Miss Honeyworth excitedly ran out of the room. The audience was equally appalled and aghast, much like Detective Babcock, the rising din of whispers and accusations circling amongst the diners.

          “Why hasn’t anyone found this chef yet?” Lola asked herself. She was frantically scribbling notes in her small pad of paper, drawing connecting lines between the words “Fernsby” and “nightcap”, and underneath, she circled her third incriminating word: “poisoned”. She looked up from her notes, her attention on the scene in the middle of the room, where the detective, though animated, couldn’t hold her focus, for once more she caught the newspaper man leaning against the wall of the shadowed side-entrance hallway. This time, he appeared to be staring directly at her, and she flinched back in surprise from the intensity of his stare, yet she held his gaze, as if looking away would cause her to miss some unspoken information.

          Lola saw the slightest smile hook one side of his mouth, accompanying the smallest shake of his head. Her brows scrunched in confusion as the newspaper man slowly brought his forefinger and thumb up to one side of his head, his index finger pressing into his temple, his thumb jutting up towards the ceiling.

          “Shot?” she mumbled, and crossed out her note of poison, replacing one mode of murder for the other. When she looked up from her pad of paper, the newspaper man was again gone. “That seems a tad gruesome.” The next surprise came when Miss Honeyworth burst into the dining room in a flailing stumble, frantic and hysterical. She clung to Detective Babcock, and after a blathering rush of unintelligible syllables, finally shouted the cause of her distress.

          “Mr. Fernsby’s been shot!”

          “I have fetched the chef,” announced Mr. Garfield at the same moment as he entered the dining room after the maid whilst dragging an uncooperative, squat figure in a crooked chef’s hat and coat behind him.

          “Let go of me!” the chef squawked. He attempted to tug his arm free of the butler’s tight grip, all while digging his heels in reluctance at being forced into the dining room where chaos had exploded. “You can’t prove I did anything wrong!”

          “I can’t prove you did anything right,” Mr. Garfield retorted, and with a commanding yank, brought the cook before Detective Babcock.

          “Did you poison Mr. Fernsby?” the detective asked point blank over the wailing sobs of Miss Honeyworth who had buried her face into his chest.

          “What? No!” screeched the chef.

          “Then you won’t mind taking a drink of Miss Honeyworth’s specialty nightcap that you created?” Detective Babcock dislodged the maid and pressed the beverage from the fireplace towards the chef who shirked back as the item was presented.

          “Get that vile stuff away from me! I’m not in the habit of drinking cough syrup. Those ‘nightcaps’ will keel anyone over by its fumes alone.”

          “Where did you find Fernsby?” asked the detective to the sobbing maid.

          “I found him in the kitchen,” Miss Honeyworth wailed.

          “And where did you find the chef?” Detective Babcock asked the butler.

          “Also in the kitchen,” he answered.

          “Then who called in the tip that Fernsby had been murdered?”

          “I did!” the chef shouted.

          The audience laughed at the buffoonery of the characters standing in a circle, yelling and sporadically pointing at one another with each accusation of Fernsby’s demise.

          “Mr. Garfield instructed me to get water before he told Miss Honeyworth to phone the police,” the chef began to explain. “I slipped in a puddle of water, bringing half the kitchen down with me. Before I could get up, I saw Mr. Fernsby in the doorway, staggering in, when right before my very eyes, he was shot, so I phoned in the tip.”

          “Who shot him?” Detective Babcock demanded, he and the audience on pins and needles to learn the truth.

          “I did,” Mr. Garfield declared, and with a swiftness contradictory to his otherwise sleepy disposition, the butler swooped up behind Miss Honeyworth, pulling her close in front of his broad frame, using her both as a shield and a hostage.

          “He’s got a gun in his pocket!” she squealed in surprise.

          “Don’t do anything rash,” warned Detective Babcock.

          “Everything I do is with purpose,” Mr. Garfield stated, slowly backing towards the side hallway of the dining room, Miss Honeyworth tottering along with him. “Fernsby was a nuisance to society.”

          “He brought jobs,” countered the chef. “He put this town on the map.”

          “By leveling the old dairy farm? My father’s legacy? Don’t make me laugh,” Mr. Garfield spat.

          “Your father was compensated greatly,” declared a voice behind Mr. Garfield, “and was able to give you the lifestyle one only reads about in the papers.” There was a loud “thunk”, and Mr. Garfield dropped to the ground, releasing Miss Honeyworth before he crumpled completely.

          Lola gasped, clutching onto Raphael. “It’s gotta be newspaper man,” she whispered in excitement, however, standing in the entryway where the towering butler once invaded, was none other than Mr. Fernsby himself, who appeared to all to be as well and very much alive as one could be. The cast, and audience, gasped in unison.

          “Mr. Fernsby?!”

          “Hello, dear friends,” Mr. Fernsby greeted, fully stepping into the dining room, a thick and heavy candlestick in his hands. “It seems I’ve returned from the dead.”

          “Mr. Fernsby! You’re alive!” Miss Honeyworth shouted.

          “Yes, my dear, it would appear that way,” the older man replied with a smile. “Despite my life trying to be taken twice this evening, I guess it shows that you can’t keep a good man down.” The cast laughed, aside from Detective Babcock, who stood to the side pinching the bridge of his nose.

          “I have questions,” Detective Babcock spoke, gaining the brood’s attention.

          “Yes, yes, Detective, and all will be answered,” reassured Mr. Fernsby. “Garfield here did try to poison me, and when that failed, escalated to more drastic means. Luckily, his aim is as bad as his eyesight, as most of the poison missed my beverage, and he only just grazed my coat sleeve.” He waved his arm to the side, showing off the wound to his dinner jacket.

          “Well! This has been quite the evening,” Detective Babcock chuckled.

          “Indeed it has. But, let’s not dwell on the sins of the evening, let’s celebrate the life we are given by having one of Miss Honeyworth’s lovely nightcaps in the library while we wait for police to book my ex-butler.”

          “I’ll drink to that,” cheered the detective.

          “I’ll pass, thank you,” huffed the chef. “If Garfield couldn’t off you, those nightcaps will.”

          “I have a cast iron liver, my friend. Come! Let us celebrate!” Mr. Fernsby ushered Miss Honeyworth and the chef out of the dining room, much to the satisfaction and applause of the diners.

          “Well, gumshoes, I guess that’s signed, sealed, and delivered,” Detective Babcock said, addressing the room while dusting off his hands. “I’m going to take this bum down to the station, but you all can enjoy a nightcap on my behalf, that is, if you can stomach it. Thank you all for helping me solve the case, and please have a good rest of your night.” Detective Babcock bowed to the diners who showered down their applause and cheers. He then hoisted the disoriented Mr. Garfield onto his feet and led him out of the dining room through the side entryway, where Lola watched as the newspaper man gave a tilt of his head briefly in her direction, turned, and followed behind the retreating actors.                               

~~~~~~~~~~

"Whew!" Well, this was a long time in the making! Sorry to have been so absent with this story! I'm not even sure how it got away from me that quickly, but aside from that, I really love how this chapter turned out! Hopefully I can get some more posted sooner rather than later, but until then, I hope you enjoyed!

Until next time friends, be kind and stay safe! You all are the best!

~Melissa

[broxanan]

"The waves heaved and smashed against the sides, spitting foam, an occasional pebble. Naked, the four of us faced the darkness, the terrifying infinity of water and night sky.

It's like the end of the world, Trifonov said, exhaling.

Isn't it?

We didn't comment, but continued to stand, shivering, our tongues, our hearts, numb with cold and fear. Far in the distance lay the countries we might never visit. Back behind us was the land we could never leave."

The Orchard - Kristina Gorcheva-Newberry

[digitalnewberry]

Turn of the century halloween

Steele-Winters family papers [box 006], 1860-2009

Here at the Newberry, we love transcribing old letters and diaries. Enjoy a selection of some of our favorite quotes about Halloween from the late 1800s to early 1900s, which feel totally different and yet entirely the same as today:

“Last night, being Halloween celebration, we went first to the movies which had a 5 reel (20 cents) show of Napoleon giving the principal events in his life.” (May Walden, 1915. View this page or all pages in the set)

“George Swearingen has just run in to tell us to look out the window, and see the Monkey - with the Organ Man - so of course- we had to run to the Window.  he went to a Halloween party at Mr Bailey, 7 Margaret & Lallie went with Bridget in a Carriage to a Halloween party.” (Elvira Sheridan Badger, 1903. View this page or all pages in the set)

“Mrs. Sikes reminded me that Hallowe'en is next and they will be after me. Everybody was very nice and helpful and I had a good time, But I ate something that burned my stomach so it felt on fire… Next time, if I'm still alive, you must come a little later so you can take in the Old Settler's 3rd Wed in Oct - and the Hallowe'en festival.  Much, much love, Mother.” (May Walden, 1959. View this page or all pages in the set)

and our personal favorite:

"Dear Papa and Momma, A nice long letter came last night which we found when we came home from Mrs Davis's Hallowe'en party. I can't say that the Doctor and I enjoyed the party much.  We are both rather quiet people and it isn't natural to us to frisk." (Charles Hinman, 1895. View this page or all pages in the set)

Charles G. Hinman letter, 1845

See more letters, pictures, and rejection of frisking here

[prettyvacanttt]

Had to go support my old man boyfriend last night because his band opened at the Newberry but they always schedule metal shows so terribly I went to work so hungover and sore it was pathetic

[ahmarwolf]

Campfire Tails Reg Open

Campfire Tails takes place in Ogden Group Camp, just off Highway 97 near La Pine, Oregon. The campground itself is part of the Newberry National Volcanic Monument. Its location in the rain shadow of the Cascade Mountains gives the area a desert-like climate, with hot days and chilly nights and occasional afternoon thunderstorms. On Au