#also first time using watercolours and it’s certainly interesting

[mfdragon]

So… funny story…

I was watching TFA season 2 and I saw the pattern of “all spark fragment goes in thing; thing becomes new bot” and I thought

“Gee imagine if it went in a train, we could officially get Astrotrain. But wait, he wouldn’t be a triple changer…. Unless….”

And so Blitzwing now has a son. Enjoy!

Bonus:

[zahri-melitor]

Batman: Hush

This was a mix of well-written, fun, and intensely irritating.

Let’s start with the good: the art. The dreamy watercolours used for all the flashbacks really sold the story. I spent plenty of time staring at how pretty they were.

It certainly delivered as a run through the Rogues Gallery and a good chunk of the Bat family, plus I am extremely weak for Lois Lane and Bruce Wayne flirting on purpose in public (and Lois-Clark-Bruce-Selina team ups). I really enjoyed the way it just pinged around the whole cast and there was a lot of "who hasn't had a scene yet? Well it's YOUR turn!"

It's also a story that is fun to read as a trade, but must have really shone to follow in serial, because you got a rogue or so a month ticked off the checklist of 'culprit' as you went through it, leading to all sorts of interesting speculation. Like, I NOTICED that we didn't get Bane or Penguin in this story, both of whom also would have been reasonable 'I know your secret' villain solutions to this, as it would have been, in order, 'further payback for the brother thing not being true' or 'your bad business mirror image in Gotham'. Cobblepot knowing Batman is Bruce Wayne would play really well when Penguin is being written as a genuine threat to Gotham and leaning into his underworld fixer skillset (rather than when he's being written as a joke character).

The annoying parts: Look I know this was in Batman, the comic that is explicitly about Batman, but wow was Bruce's reality altering field that forces everyone else to be subservient to his own plot was in effect. This is why I tend not to read straight Batman plots, because Bruce has a habit of overwhelming the autonomy of everyone else on the page.

Helena and Harold in particular got done dirty here. I THINK all of Helena's situation got handwaved away as Scarecrow's fault? And what was the point of having Harold back for a single page to talk for the first time and then be shot dead? Poor Harold, you have never been used as more than a crude plot device.

In terms of "cognitive dissonance with what is going on in other books right now", Tim specifically manipulating Selina at Bruce's request right as simultaneously over in Robin his 16th birthday is occurring is...well you ARE a bastard aren't you Bruce. And you're not going to apologise for it.

I had to laugh that as far as I can tell, someone in the future just went 'everything we wrote here about Jason sounds good, let's make it canonically true when we resurrect Jason'. Like seriously. In hindsight the sliding of all of this between 'unreality to fuck with Bruce' to 'nope, that's really Jason' did his character a disservice. (Also that weird line about 'Jason' being the same age as Nightwing may have caused the accidental Jason age up issue? JASON IS STILL SEVENTEEN HERE IF HE'S REAL, editorial)

Also, being reminded that THIS is the famous ‘Jason cut Tim’s throat’ moment. Hah. “I’ll need stitches but Catwoman got the bleeding stopped”. This is not a hugely traumatic moment for Tim, folks. It’s a cut that’s already been bandaged. (Also Hush cuts Bruce’s neck almost identically in the very next issue, where’s the matching angst over that?)

[jscreativemedia]

INTERSECTIONS PROJECT

EVALUATION OF TERM ONE.

To conclude this first term at Arts University Bournemouth, it's certainly not been the easiest mentally but in terms of work I've produced, it has been very productive.  

Throughout the briefs I have catered my work and my research to what I'm already knowledgeable about, using skills I am already used to using. This has allowed me to be creative and execute the best work. I tend to work quite quickly once I have that initial spark. What I love about design is an initial idea can grow to be something amazing eventually, snowballing constantly. 

I think I managed my time well, doing lots of brainstorming and the main bulk of the thinking and planning first, and then once I have my idea I can relax, create and develop. I always make sure I am on time as this takes off the pressure of deadlines and allows me enough time to make changes if necessary. 

Each time I have received feedback I always take it on board. The feedback I've had has been very useful, giving me new ideas so I can further my projects, sometimes bringing me back to the brief ensuring I'm still answering the question is helpful because sometimes I can get lost within a brief slipping off the subject. The more I'm answering these briefs the more I wish I could produce my work in a physical way, like for example if I had planned my time a bit wiser I could have printed out my ‘third story' poster art design piece instead of handing it in digitally, similarly to this project I wish I could have physically painted my final piece, but sometimes I have to think about time for execution, resources, money, permission etc.  

Although I have used skills, I have already acquired to construct my work, I have used watercolour in my most recent work experimenting with colours to form my background on one of my final pieces (which I don’t normally use, my work is mostly black and grey), so this was positive and new for me. 

I am gutted about how the second half of this term has gone. My health has impacted me massively and not allowed me to turn up to quite a few lessons now, although this isn't a self-inflicted issue, I feel like I've missed out on lots. I have really enjoyed the workshops and learning new skills like the book binding and the letter press so it killed me missing the other workshops, I hate being behind on work it creates a whole other anxiety, and this health situation hasn’t helped. But I also must give myself some credit, I have been trying my hardest to catch up on the work outside of lessons like Adobe InDesign. I've always wanted to learn how to use it because I'm very interested in magazine design etc. but like with the other workshops, I've missed out on I’ve independently learned outside of class when I've been able to. 

[maynard50potter]

<h1>Influencers Share Skincare Routines Using Fresh Soy Face Cleanser</h1>

Keep reading to see why the Fresh Soy Face Cleanser's new formula worked for my skin and joined the selective record of face washes that actually blow me away. The Honest Company’s Sweet Almond Face and Body Lotion is a fast-absorbing lotion made with shea butter, jojoba, and almond oils, to nourish and soften skin. Suitable for all skin sorts, this gentle lotion is gentle enough for every day use. One of the most effective face washes for oily skin, the La Roche-Posay Effaclar cleanser is light and formulated with zinc pidolate and the La Roche-Posay Thermal Spring Water. It successfully cleanses away all of the dust and oil without affecting the skin’s pH stability or over drying it. The cleanser is right for acne-prone, oily and sensitive skin. Just a splash of water and a small quantity of the cleanser massaged into my skin eliminated all my makeup. A new-generation micellar water facial cleanser Contains highly effective micelles to entice all impurities & take away make-up from face & eyes Blended with natural Echinacea flower extract for antioxidant & soothing properties ... Pearl jojoba beads, circulation is boosted and dry skin is exfoliated away. Rub in this creamy cleanser for a minute or two and rinse away to reveal a child gentle, smooth ... Also part of the product update is new, sustainable packaging and a swap in ingredient sourcing. However I feel this is not in a place to carry out a 100% in phrases of eradicating waterproof and long staying makeup like liquid lipsticks. I will show you guys more in the Demo pictures beneath. Another factor, I also tried using this as a makeup cleanser. I use this cleanser morning and evening and will proceed to take action for a gentle treatment now the colder climate is affecting my skin. However, very few of fresh's facial-care merchandise have something that approaches the current state of the art, especially in regard to interesting skin-identical components, anti-irritants, or antioxidants. And for all the flowery posturing, their soaps are simply that, cleaning soap, and the perfume is the only unique side of each. Alaffia youngsters bubble bath is produced from a plant-based, vegan method that is free from parabens, sulfate, silicones, phthalates, and synthetic dyes. sorbet face cleanser Fresh's Soy Face Cleanser is a favorite for a purpose, and the new, enhanced method is unbelievable. It labored wonderfully on my sensitive skin and eliminated my makeup swiftly—I was shocked by how simply my basis washed away with this product. As an added bonus, the cucumber scent makes your every day cleanse really feel like a relaxing facial. Suitable for all skin varieties, this cleanser is certainly worth a strive. When adopted by a serum and/or cream of your selecting, the skin is left feeling smooth and gentle, and seems radiant and dewy. I typically use this cleanser as a second cleanse in my double-cleanse routine, as I usually use my Makeup Eraser Cloth as a first cleanse to take away make-up. I like it this manner as a end result of after utilizing my Fresh cleanser, my skin feels delicate, clean, and calm. This yr, to celebrate the brand’s first and most popular skincare product, Fresh has also partnered with New York City-based illustrator Blair Breitenstein to reimagine the packaging of their iconic cleanser. She’s taken the “Soy Girl”, an illustration that first appeared on the unique packaging, and given her a contemporary watercolour makeover. What people will go crazy about as well, is that it’s in a restricted edition jumbo measurement, so at 200ml for $69, you’re getting a good higher worth. Fabulous mild face cleanser that removes make-up with ease. If you are not in a position to present proof of travel eligibility throughout goods collection in-store, your order shall be rejected. Enter Fresh’s Soy Face Cleanser, which has been one of the solely products that’s stuck with me through-and-through. At the time of purchase, the change price will be calculated according to the native citation. You should buy Fresh Soy Face Cleanser online hereand here and right here I hope this review helped. It's nice to write down about something that is been trialled and examined by each my Mum and I over numerous years, I know I'll proceed to purchase it for each of us. Enter your e-mail address to comply with this weblog and receive notifications of new posts by e mail. DERMOJEL GENTLE FOAMING CLEANSER with Aloe Vera and Antioxidants Deep purifying for all skin types. This refreshing mild foaming gel has been specially formulated to leave skin feeling fresh, clarified and refined. Alcohol free, mild yet efficient method will leave skin fresh, clean and calm. Reapplycleanser to face with fingertips in mild round motion before ... Replenish skin moisture and protecting barrier for visibly smoother complexion with Re Hyaluronic Acid Hydrating Cleanser. The first step in every day skincare routine to cleanse skin with out drying for soft and energized ... Allow this paste to take a seat for 20 minutes earlier than rinsing it off with water. In a bowl, mix coconut milk and almond paste together. On right now's episode I'm chatting with Jill Dunn and Carlene Higgins, in any other case generally recognized as the duo behind Breaking Beauty Podcast. Opt for a face wash that’s non-comedogenic and dermatologist-tested to cut back the chance of any sort of skin irritation. Fresh product ingredient listings are updated periodically. Before utilizing a fresh product, please learn the ingredient listing on the packaging of your product to be sure that the elements are applicable on your private use. Wet the skin and therapeutic massage over the face and eyes, then rinse. For gentle and fresh skin, wipe your face with a cotton pad dipped in soy milk each evening, earlier than bed.

[sneez]

hello darling ned today me and @duskodair went to visit Killerton House (it was lovely!!) and they had a little bit of info up about the house during the civil wars, including the fun fact that oliver cromwell stayed there for a wee bit - on the bus home we did quite a bit of wondering as to whether mr fairfax may have stayed there as well, would you know the answer?? (i think he wouldve liked the gardens a lot, they are very beautiful) Truely the fairfax brainrot is catching! in the best way <3

hello my dearest magpie!!! ❤️❤️❤️ that sounds like a marvellous trip, i am so glad that you had a nice time :-D i would love to visit killerton house someday! i shall add it to my ever-growing list of castles and stately homes to visit......i am slowly working my way through it!

with regard to your question, i have done some investigation and would tentatively guess that whilst i do not believe that fairfax ever stayed in killerton house itself, he certainly did stay in the adjacent estate of columbjohn, one mile west, in 1642 and again in 1646. both estates were owned by the acland family, who were aligned with the royalists: sir john acland raised two regiments for the king and used columbjohn as a garrison for royalist troops until 1645, when it moved into parliamentarian hands. (there is an interesting quote by the earl of clarendon which describes the significance of the mansion in the war effort: 'devonshire was left in a very unsafe posture: there being only a small party at columb-john, a house of sir john ackland's, three miles off exeter, to control the power of that city, where the earl of stamford was; and to dispute not only with any commotion that might happen in the country, but with any power that might arrive by sea'.)

fairfax (and cromwell, who stayed in columbjohn as well as killerton) spent some time there during the first civil war, using it as his headquarters in march 1646 during the siege of essex, which ended in april. sir john acland's wife actually wrote to cromwell that she 'received such ample testimony of your love when you were pleased to quarter at my house as that i cannot sufficiently express my thankfulness for the same', which is nice, although i expect she was less pleased by the fact that parliament had confiscated her house. sir john acland had to pay a hefty fine to regain his estates (the fourth largest in devon, ouch), but he conveniently died in 1647 so he didn't have to deal with it. both estates, killerton and columbjohn, were subsequently passed down through the family until sir hugh acland, the fifth baronet, moved his principal seat to killerton and left columbjohn to fall into disrepair. it was largely destroyed in the mid-eighteenth century, but the chapel was left untouched (possibly because sir john acland, unhelpfully a different sir john acland to before, had endowed it with an inviolable endowment of £25 per annum 'for the encouragement of a chaplain to preach and read prayers in it every sabbath day'. i bet sir hugh was grumpy about that). the chapel was restored in 1851 by arthur henry dyke acland, so you might have seen it on your way to and from the house? otherwise very little remains of the original estate except the entrance archway to the former gatehouse, which you can see, along with the chapel in the distance, in this picture:

i expect fairfax rode through this gate! here is the chapel again in a watercolour from 1800 by the reverend john swete:

that is a very unnecessarily long answer to your question, but to put it in short: i don't think fairfax ever stayed at killerton, but he was definitely a stone's throw away! he also may well have visited the house even if he wasn't officially stationed there. cromwell and fairfax sleepover at killerton house :-D i hope that gives you enough of an idea my dearest magpie. i would love to think that fairfax had the chance to walk around the gardens (from the pictures i think he would have liked them very much indeed!), but i expect he was too occupied with Besieging and Signing Documents to appreciate the flowers. perhaps if he had a quiet day he might have gone for an amble......i shall continue to imagine so :-) ❤️❤️❤️

[imaginejamesandsirius]

Titanic au? I need angst

((A/N: Warning for suicidal ideation in the beginning (in keeping with the movie), and some referenced period-typical homophobia. Also I’ve never seen the movie before so this is based on the synopsis I read and some gifsets. Therefore, scenes are almost certainly out of order. It’s a sort of open ending, so you can imagine it ends like the movie or they both make it out)) 

Over the course of his admittedly short life, Sirius had come to the conclusion that he was always going to be miserable. His parents didn't like him very much, but that was just the beginning of his issues. Granted, all the other issues stemmed from that, he was sure. 

Like this. He was getting on a bloody boat and he hated boats. He didn't even know how to swim-- and sure, no one was going to be getting into this water because it was freezing, but that was beside the point. Or how about the part where he was being forced on this trip to go and meet his fiancé? A fiancé that he'd never met and had zero interest in. Sirius was of the mind that they should've been introduced, at the very least, before getting engaged, but his parents hadn't agreed. 

He was on a boat that he didn't want to be on, on his way to an engagement he didn't want to be a part of, and part of a life that he didn't want to live. 

They boarded the ship. Time passed. They were having a grand old party. Sirius was standing on the deck in a suit because he was supposed to have attended the party like a good son, but instead of attending, he was looking out on treacherous water. Without really meaning to, he went to the back of the ship and gripped the railing, leaning forward like he was going to pitch over the railing and into the ocean. 

If he climbed on the outside of the railing, it would be so easy for him to lose his grip and fall. He'd be lost in the waves and terrified as his will to live suddenly flared, but he didn't know how to swim so it would be a short fight. No one could prove that he'd done it on purpose. He could just... stop existing, here, on this expensive boat where first class tickets had been a small fortune and third class tickets still cost a hefty sum. He'd be able to leave, and no one would be able to stop him. It wasn't like back home, where there would be an investigation and he'd get a big funeral; his body would be as fake in death as he'd been in life. He wouldn't have to marry some random woman that he cared nothing about, and that seemed preferable to him right now. 

"Nice view," a deep voice commented. 

Sirius jumped in surprise and turned to see who'd snuck up on him. He noticed right away that the man must be on here third class, and he hated himself for it being the first thing he saw. 

But it was so obvious. 

Not at the party, for one. No suit, for another. His clothes weren't cheap, but they certainly weren't expensive. Economical. Sirius had never owned an economical piece of clothing in his entire life; his parents wouldn't have allowed it. 

"Though something tells me that it's not what you were enjoying." 

Befuddled, Sirius glanced out at the ocean. "It looks like shite." 

The man snorted, then started laughing. "Fair enough. I figured it was a better opening than asking if you were planning to jump, though." 

"I wasn't going to jump," Sirius denied automatically. 

"Sure you weren't. That's why you chose this part of the ship to stand at, where no one would catch you." 

"You caught me,” Sirius couldn’t help but point out. It wasn’t a course of conversation he wanted to follow though, so he said, “Anything else to say now that you've ruined my time alone?" 

The man looked at him for a long moment. "Just in case you had been thinking of jumping, I want to tell you that you shouldn't." 

"What?" 

"If I wake up one day and find out that you've jumped, I'm gonna jump to." 

"Are you stupid?" Sirius asked, the words slipping out of his mouth before he could filter them. 

"Generally, yes. But people who are suicidal aren't willing to kill other people too, that I've seen. So if you had been thinking about it, I want you to know that it wouldn't be just you that died." 

Sirius stared at, dumbfounded. That was... "I wasn't going to jump," he muttered, pushing past him and heading back inside. Joining the party wasn't on the top of the list for things he wanted to do, but it was better than this. 

"My name's James," the man called after him, before he got very far. 

Sirius paused and turned to look at him. 

"This is the part where you tell me your name." 

Sirius started walking again. He wasn't going to see this bloke-- James, apparently-- again. Third class was in a completely different section of the ship from first class; he wouldn't have to see him for the rest of the trip. 

*

"What do you do for a living?" Sirius asked. 

"I'm an artist," James said, not bothering to ask about the suddenness of the question. It's not like Sirius had built up to it, after all. He had a habit of blurting out whatever he was thinking, no matter how rude it might be-- his parents hated it. 

"Like oil paintings?" 

James laughed. "That would make me far richer than I am. No, sketches mostly. Watercolours sometimes, but never on a ship," he said with a smirk. "And only a few, at that." 

"If that's what you do, how did you afford a ticket?" 

"Lottery," James admitted, with no shame. He was so comfortable with himself. 

Sirius wondered what it would feel like to be that way. "What do you draw?" 

"People. Flowers." James's smile went soft as he looked at Sirius. "Anything I find beautiful," he said, voice low so that no one would overhear. 

Sirius's face flamed. No man had ever complimented him before, and he'd certainly never had the courage to do it to them. 

"Not clothes though," he added casually, but he still kept his voice quiet. "Never did get the hang of those." 

"I'd imagine that makes quite the portfolio," Sirius managed to reply. He cleared his throat. "Did you bring any with you?" 

"I did, though I'm not sure how comfortable you would be with some of them." 

"Would you describe them as racy?" 

"I wouldn't. Some might, by simple virtue of me being a man." 

"Despite what you might think of me, I don't think anything you've drawn would scare me away." 

"I think a great many things about you, but it's been too short a time to know which ones are accurate." 

"Pretty big gamble telling me what you draw, then." Sirius had never told anybody what he liked, after all. Though sometimes, he wondered what it would be like to find someone else like him. What they'd talk about. If they'd kiss, of if they’d just be friends who shared an interest. 

"It wasn't a gamble at all," James said. 

"You say that rather confidently. Everything's a gamble." 

"When you have nothing to lose, I would argue it makes nothing a gamble. Like when I found you on the railing? You remember that?" 

"When you said you'd jump if I did?" 

James nodded. "It wasn't a gamble. I knew you wouldn't jump." 

"Did you?" 

"Yes." 

Sirius hadn't known that for sure. James's confidence boosted his own, though. Maybe it truly hadn't been a gamble. 

*

James was... alive. It felt stupid to think-- because of course he was alive, they all were, it's the only reason they'd been able to meet-- but he lived and he was happy about it. He took joy in living, and Sirius wasn't used to that. He said so, and James gave him a strange look. "Like... ever? You've never been happy to just exist?" 

"I don't know." 

"You've at least been happy before, right?" 

Of course he had. He just couldn't think of an example. 

"When was the last time you enjoyed yourself?" James asked, since it didn't look like any answer was forthcoming for his other question. 

"I guess... when Regulus was around." 

"Who's Regulus?" 

"My brother. He got sick when I was- oh, maybe fourteen? Fifteen? Went in hospital and never came back out. My parents always liked him better," Sirius added without really meaning to. Then his mouth twisted. "I know. Poor little rich boy with his rich boy problems. Other people have it worse." 

"I wasn't going to say that. Although it is true that somebody will always have it worse than you. You could be in the middle of getting tortured, and there would still probably be someone who had it worse than you. But that's not the point," James said, shaking himself. 

"What's the point?" 

"That being rich doesn't make you exempt from having problems. You lost your brother, and it sounds like your parents hate you. All being rich means is that you're not worried about having a place to live or something to eat on top of that. I have that problem sometimes, but you know, I don't even think of it as my big problem. You want to hear my big problem?" James asked with a grin, nudging him. 

Sirius chuckled. He never knew how serious James was when he said things like that, but even if it was just a joke, it made him feel better. That was more than anyone else had done for him in a long time. "Sure. What's your big, bad problem?" 

"Sometimes, I draw with the wrong pencil." 

Sirius stared at him for a moment, but James kept his face straight. Sirius started laughing. "Really? How do you have a wrong pencil? Aren't they all for drawing?" 

"Yeah, but there are different types. Some have hard graphite, some have soft." 

"And what does that mean for your poor drawings?" 

"Well, if I use the wrong pencil, sometimes it'll smear everywhere. Or it can make the subject appear much harsher than they are." 

"Truly tragic." 

"Isn't it?" James agreed mildly. 

"You want to know my big rich people problem?" 

"It's not going to be like losing your brother is it?" 

"No, this one is definitely ridiculous." 

James grinned. "Alright, tell me." 

"There's a horribly expensive necklace that I'm supposed to give my fiance when I meet her." 

"How horribly expensive?" 

"I feel like it's more than the boat cost to make," Sirius said flatly. It might be an exaggeration, but it didn't feel like much of one. 

"Sodding hell. That's..." 

"Right?" 

James nodded numbly. 

*

"What's with all the automobiles?" James asked, looking out at the rows of them. 

Sirius snorted, assuming it was a joke. Then he noticed that James looked confused. "Oh, er- they belong to the passengers. That one's ours," he said, pointing at one with gleaming black paint. "Pretty much everyone in first class is bringing their automobile with them." He knew, because it had been part of the ever-so-titillating conversation they'd had at lunch one day. "Some are just here for the ride so they can be sold once we reach land again. I think the crew might be transporting a few for the government." 

"Rich people really are living in a different world than me," James said with a chuckle. He grabbed Sirius's hand and they headed down the stairs. As always, James's touch made his heart race. "If you could go anywhere right now, where would you go?" 

"My room, since anywhere else would have a high likelihood of housing my parents," Sirius snorted. His parents only went to his room when they were specifically trying to find him. 

"No," James said, rolling his eyes. "I meant like, anywhere out in the world." 

"We're surrounded by water," he reminded him. 

"You're no fun at all. Use your imagination," James said. He let go of Sirius's hand and sat in one of the automobiles at the edge that didn't have doors. He mimed putting a cigar in his mouth and puffed. "Where to, sir?" he asked in a gruff voice meant to imitate a cabbie’s accent. 

Sirius laughed and sat in the backseat. He hummed, thinking it over. Imagination... all he'd ever imagined was getting away; he'd never thought about where he would get away to. He leaned forward so his arms were resting on the back bench of the front seats. "To the sky," he said, thinking about the dozens of hours he'd spent looking at clouds and dreaming that he was flying among them, because anything had been better than walking on the dirt. 

James glanced at him, grinning. "What's the point when you already have a star?" he asked, dropping the accent. 

"Because we'd be there together," Sirius said under his breath. 

They were close enough that James heard him. His smile widened tellingly, but he didn't say anything about it. 

*

Sirius's parents were busy and would be for several hours, so Sirius didn't think twice about inviting James to his room so he could finally look at his pictures. Maybe it was silly, but Sirius had spent a lot of time thinking about those drawings and what they would look like. It was pretty much as described: pretty people and pretty things. 

The people in his drawings were nude, but it was hardly pornographic. About half of them didn't have a full view of their- ahem, special place because of the way they were posed. Women... and men. There were quite a few of nature and buildings as well, but Sirius couldn't take his eyes off the portraits. 

"Who are all of these people?" 

"Some were models. Others were just people I met at parties and the like." 

"You met people at parties and they volunteered to pose for you?" Sirius asked doubtfully. 

"Well," James smirked, "they were French. Very different, that." 

"I see," Sirius agreed, also smirking. He flipped through a few more. Was it his imagination, or could he see the love these had been done with? He'd never been a great admirer of art. He'd never understood it; it had never spoken to him. It had all seemed lifeless, but anything James did couldn't be confused as such. A person with that much love and light could never make art that didn't reflect it. Even the buildings he drew were love letters to architecture. "Would you ever draw me?" he asked. 

"I don't think it would be the sort of portrait you're wanting." 

"What makes you say that?" 

"As you can see, and if you recall, I told you that I only do nudes." 

"I know." 

James looked over at him, hands frozen in place where he'd poised one drawing up to show Sirius. 

Sirius met his gaze evenly, even as his cheeks pinked. 

James's throat worked. It seemed like he was speechless, and Sirius didn't quite know what to make of that. 

"You don't have to if you don't want to," he mumbled after several seconds of silence. 

"I didn't say that," James said immediately. "But I don't want you to do something you'd be uncomfortable with." 

"Do I look uncomfortable?" 

"You might once you're naked." He paused. "Have you ever been naked around someone before?" 

"Does the doctor count?" 

James raised his eyebrows. "Not even for sex?" 

"Saying yes now would be lying on two fronts," Sirius said. To help distract himself from the deepening blush across his cheeks, he reached into his pocket. "This is that necklace I told you about." 

James reached out and stabilized the jewel in the center. "It's beautiful." 

"I was thinking... maybe I wear this. If you draw me. It'd be nice to think about it as something other than a symbol of the decay of my personal life." 

James's eyes flitted away from the necklace and back up to Sirius. "You're serious about this." 

He nodded. 

"Alright," James said. 

"Try not to use the wrong pencil on me. I want to look as pretty as all your French blokes." 

"You'd look prettier than them no matter what I did," James said softly. "I'll lock the door, and you can... get comfortable." 

*

"There's a party tonight in third class," James said. "You should come with me." 

A party in third class. Sirius didn't even know what that would like, but refusing would make him more like the person his parents wanted him to be and less like he wanted to be. But, "I don't know why you'd want me to come with you." It's not like they'd be able to dance together, and that was the point of a party, wasn't it? 

"You invited me for that stuffy dinner in first class. We might as well see how the other half lives, while we're at it." 

"You're part of that half," Sirius pointed out. "You already know how they live." 

"Then maybe it's something I think you should see. I think you'll have fun there; it's nothing like the dinner in first class was, or how you've described the parties you've been to." 

Sirius worried at his lip for a moment. Then, "What should I wear?" 

"Dress down a bit. More like me," James said. He got to his feet, putting a hand on Sirius's knee and squeezing as he did. The touch was mostly hidden by him moving, and it was fleeting; it still made Sirius's blood run hot. That was silly, wasn't it? James had seen him naked-- had drawn him naked-- and a touch on the knee was getting his blood pumping? They'd held hands; they'd talked as though they had a future together. Comparatively, a touch on he knee was nothing. 

But it wasn’t nothing, and Sirius couldn’t even try to pretend otherwise. 

And now they had a date to go to a party together. He didn't even have to worry about impressing him; all James had wanted was for Sirius to be himself. He still worried a bit for how it would go. 

*

He didn't quite know how it had happened. They'd been laughing, and then Sirius had pulled him out of the main room, still laughing. He was pretty sure that he'd meant to ask if that’s what all parties were like for him, but then they'd been sharing the same breath, and there wasn't a damn thing that could've gotten Sirius to step away. 

"We should go somewhere we won't get caught," Sirius managed to say when he got enough space from James's mouth-- not an easy feat. 

"Your room?" 

Sirius grimaced. "My parents have a key." He wasn't sure he had a key, but they definitely did. "They like to make sure I'm not getting up to trouble. Yours?" 

"Third class," James reminded him. "It's not just my room; there's loads of other people there." 

"Bugger. Wait, I've got it. C'mon," Sirius said, and started pulling him in the right direction. He was sure that it was obvious what they'd been doing, but most of the people in third class were still at the party, no other passenger would be down in this area, and there was nothing here that the crew would need. 

"Where are we going?" 

Sirius grinned. "The sky." 

He loved the way that James's eyes lit with realisation without him having to say another word. James cared as much about him as he did about James, right? This was proof. It wasn't idle flirtation and animal attraction; it was something more than that. 

They hurried down to where all the automobiles were, and not a one of them was locked because they were on the water. Sirius picked one that wasn't near the edge, and they tumbled into the backseat. 

"I love you," James whispered against his neck, his hands on Sirius's back under his shirt and hot as a brand. Sirius was his, now. "I love you," he said again, when Sirius got a hand around his prick. His tone was worshipful and awed, like he couldn't believe the universe had let them find each other at the exact right moment. 

Sirius could hardly believe it either, and he wasn't about to turn it away. "I love you too." 

*

"Sirius, where are you going?" Orion screamed. He latched a hand around his son's upper arm to try and stop him from getting any further away from the lifeboat. 

"I'm not leaving him!" 

"He's going to die here!" They were yelling because they were angry, but the sound of everyone else panicking and the water and the boats was enough to make them have to speak louder anyways. "If you go after him, you'll die too. Even if you make it out of here alive, you'd be executed wherever you lived!" 

"I'd rather die with him than live another second with you!" Sirius screamed, wrenching his arm out of his father's grip and running towards the lower decks where he knew James was. He didn't know how he was going to get him out of the handcuffs or where they'd try to go after he was free, but he couldn't just leave him there. 

If you jump, I jump. James had said that it wasn't gamble back then, but this time it was. Sirius still believed it, though. He wasn't leaving this boat without James, and if that meant not leaving it at all, then he'd be okay with that. 

[sarcastic-bubble]

Even Jedi Get Nervous

Paring: Obi-wan Kenobi x Reader

Word Count: 2.2K

Request: heya! Could you do an obi wan fic where before the clone wars obi wan meets a painter on the side of the street and falls head over heals, stuttering and blushing - Anon

A/N: This was fun to write! Like just imagine the crap Obi-wan had to put up with while Anakin was still young.  (Also I hit triple digits on my follower count and I feel loved so thank you!) 

Masterlist

You dipped your brush into the paint and smeared the light blue pigment over the entirety of the blank canvas. You weren’t quite sure what to paint just yet, but you had learned early in your career that sometimes putting down that first stroke was the hardest. You looked around you for some inspiration. You currently sat on a stool surrounded by your various works of art. Some were hung on the walls of the small stall you rented out others were stacked against each other inside various sized boxes. You looked out a little further, despite the clean and peaceful manner you attempted to keep your stall in the rest of your surroundings had the usual characteristics of a rather seedy flea market. Off in the distance, you could see someone being arrested, most likely for stealing. That was a very big problem among these parts after all and sadly not a great inspiration for a painting. You couldn’t wait for the day you managed to save enough to save credits to move out of this hellhole and buy a proper studio in the nicer part of Coruscant. Of course, that was a far-off dream at the moment. It was hard to find clients in a place like this, but it was even harder still to afford the rent anywhere nicer.

You dipped your paintbrush into a small pot of paint having come to the conclusion that you paint the Coruscant skyline; it was lovely after all. But before you could start something caught your attention. You rarely saw new faces. The market had a very loyal set of regulars and others rarely ventured in. The two newcomers had to be Jedi judging by their outfits. It struck you as odd until you remember that one of the local crime lords and been making things very difficult for the Senate. You watched the Jedi for a moment, trying to take in as much of their appearances as you could in the short amount of time you had. Both appeared to be young, far from the wrinkly old master you usually pictured when someone mentioned the order. The younger of the two was a small boy, you imagined he was no more than eleven. He had short blonde hair and a single long braid. He had to be a padawan then. You turned your attention to the older one; he was quite handsome you noted. His features were strong, but his expression was still soft as he spoke to the child next to him. You forgot your original plan of painting the Coruscant Skyline and instead picked up your stylus and began to sketch his features; you worked quickly not knowing how long he’d been within your sight.

You were quite engrossed in your work when the voice a child asked for your attention. You set the brush down on your palette careful not to let it roll off and looked to the boy; it was the Padawan you had been observing earlier. “Can I help you?” you ask with a friendly smile.

He pointed a finger at one of your larger paintings, “What kind of starship is that? I’ve never seen one before.”

You shrugged before gently placing the canvas you were previously working on onto the table. “I don’t really know, actually. I just paint and draw things as I see them. Do you want to see more? Maybe you can tell me about some of the starships in my sketchbook?” You weren’t entirely sure why you offered the kid to come see more of your work. After all, you had paintings to finish and future clients to chase down but you had always had a soft spot for children and the way he grinned at your offer warmed your heart in the most wonderful way.

You pulled up a stool for the young boy and riffled through your bag until you came to one of your paint covered sketchbooks. It looked like it had gone through hell and back. The bindings were coming apart and the leather cover was peeling in far too many places, it had been well used and loved to say the least. You took a seat back on your stool and opened the sketchbook to the first page. It was a watercolour painting of a cruiser half-submerged in a lake; you had come across it during your travels. You looked to the young boy, “I don’t believe I got your name.”

“Anakin.”

“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you Anakin. I’m (Y/N)”

-------

You weren’t sure how long you and Anakin talked but it was nice to have some company. You told him about the places you had travelled to before decided to settle down in one spot and he told you all about the ships in your many paintings. You had started working on the painting of his master again. You had assured Anakin that you were really enjoying his company but that the paint was drying so you had to work and listen at the same time.  

It didn’t take long for Anakin to become curious about your current project. “Are you painting my master?” he asked tilting his head to the side trying to get a better view.

“I suppose I am,” you replied with a laugh, “but why don’t we keep it to ourselves? I’ve found some people don’t react well when they find out I’ve been painting them without their permission.”

Anakin’s smile turned into a wide grin, “Obi-wan isn’t like that. I bet he’d love it! You should show him!”

You couldn’t help but laugh the kid’s enthusiasm and confidence. “Oh, I really don’t want to disturb him, I’m sure he has important work to do.”

“I don’t think it’s too important. I mean he’s coming over here anyway,” he said gesturing towards his master who was, in fact, approaching your stall.  You were quick to tuck the painting away.

When the other Jedi arrived, he wasn’t paying any attention to you and you were just fine with that. His focus was purely on his Padawan. “What have I told you about running off Anakin? I’m sure this lovely lady has lots of work to do and no time to answer all your questions.”

You couldn’t let Anakin take all the blame for this; you had been the one to offer to show him your paintings. “He’s actually been great company, Master…” you trailed off at the end, realizing you didn’t know his last name.

“Kenobi,” he replied quickly giving his young Padawan another scolding look. “I really am sorry though; he tends to get…” His words caught in his throat when his eyes met yours. Maker, but you were gorgeous. He stood quiet for a moment trying to get his body under control. There was no way he could effectively scold Anakin if he was blushing like an idiot. He opened his mouth as if to say something to you but then closed it again. He grabbed Anakin’s hand and looked back at the boy; finding it far easier to speak when he wasn’t looking at you. “Let’s go Anakin.”

Before he could pull the boy away you grabbed the sketchbook you had been showing him and quickly slipped it into his free hand. You held a finger up to lips indicating to him that this was supposed to be a secret. As you watched the boy get pulled away you couldn’t help but smile to yourself. He was such a kind kid and well you didn’t know much about his Master, but he was certainly something to look at. You went back to your painting of Master Kenobi, wanting to get as much done while his features were still fresh in your mind.

-------

That evening Anakin found himself sitting in his master’s quarters as he flipped through the book you had given him. He went from page to page telling a rather distracted Obi-wan all the stories you had told him earlier. He was quite excited to share all his new knowledge with his master.

“She visited Tatooine once, you know. It’s too bad we didn’t know each then, it would have been fun if she had visited. I could have shown her all the best places to paint.” Said Anakin as he admired a painting of a desert with a single bantha standing in the distance.

“Who visited Tatooine?” asked Obi-wan. He wasn’t very interested in the answer but if he didn’t show any interest Anakin would get bored with talking and most likely find some trouble to get into.

“(Y/N)”

“Who?”

“(Y/N). The painter in the market,” answered Anakin turning to the next page in the sketchbook.

“Is that where you got that book from?” asked Obi-wan looking over his shoulder at his padawan.

“Yep! She’s really nice! She told me all about the planrts she’s visited but we didn’t have time to look at the whole book, so she gave it to me! We talked a lot about starships too!” replied the young boy. He was obviously very excited about the new friend he’d made that day. “I want to go back and thank her tomorrow.”

“Well I, I suppose that would be appropriate. We’ll go first thing in the morning,” stated Obi-wan, if Anakin didn’t know him any better, he would have missed the slight blush and hint of nervousness in his voice.

“You think she’s pretty; don’t you Master?”

Obi-wan scoffed. Of course, he had thought you were pretty, you were easily one of the most beautiful women he had ever laid eye on but his young padawan didn’t need to know that. “Go to bed Anakin.”

“So you do think she’s pretty?”

“Go to bed,” he repeated this time voice firmer.

-------

Obi-wan and Anakin arrived at the market just as it opened the next morning. “Now Anakin,” started Obi-wan, “you’re just here to say thank you. Please don’t take to long. Now go on, I’ll wait here.” He waived his young padawan off and turned his gaze to you. He admired the way you happily turned to greet the young boy. He would have loved to go up and talk to you himself, but he was afraid that if he tried, he wouldn’t be able to get many words out. Admiring from afar was much easier anyway, he didn’t have to worry about embarrassing himself. He watched you give Anakin a gentle hug and then look up at him. When your eyes met, he tried to look anywhere else but you. He didn’t want you to know that he had been staring.  

Once he had determined it safe to look again, he found you kneeling by Anakin laughing about something. He couldn’t hear your laugh over the noise of the market, but he could only imagine it being as beautiful as you. He had decided he really was quite content just watching you when Anakin waved him over. Had something happened? He couldn’t just ignore his padawan, so he approached with his eyes focused on the ground ahead of him.

“Master! (Y/N) invited me for tea and we wanted to know if you’d like to come too!” said Anakin with a wide grin.

Obi-wan looked from his padawan to your smiling face. “I.. I would, um…” He tried so hard to answer. Of course, he wanted to go for tea, after listening to Anakin spend the better part of the day before and the evening talking about how wonderful you were he wanted nothing more but his mouth just wouldn’t form the words. Maybe it was the way you smiled at him or the way your gentle eyes reflected the sunlight.

“Is everything all right Master Kenobi,” you ask kindly.

“He’s fine. He’s just nervous cause he thinks you’re pretty,” states Anakin very matter-of-factly.

Obi-wan’s heart stopped and he was ready to drag Anakin away to keep him for embarrassing him anymore. He glared at the young boy while trying to suppress the heat he could feel rising on his cheeks. Your laugh pulled his gaze back to you. He had been right in assuming it would be beautiful. It was absolutely magical if he was being honest with himself, if he could hear that sound again every day for the rest of his life he would count himself a lucky man.  

“Well,” you said holding Obi-wan’s gaze with you own, “Tell your Master that I think he’s incredibly handsome and my offer for tea still stands.”

Obi-wan didn’t have any words, he just stood and stared at you as you spoke. There was no doubt in his mind that he was blushing, but you were now too. It was much less embarrassing when he wasn’t the only one. “I’d like that very much,” he replied in an even and gentle tone as he could manage.  

Anakin couldn’t help but make a disgusted noise at the way the two adults were looking at each other. At least his master was happy.

Tag List: @psionicsnow​ @in-the-frap-of-the-gods​ @glitchnovax​

[sussex-nature-lover]

Wednesday 6th January 2021

A Trail with Beatrix Potter friends at Bateman’s National Trust

NB: although other outside sites are not affiliated, I do check to make sure I only link to reputable sources.

The Christmas decorations are all put away and we move forwards properly into the new year.

On one of our visits to Bateman’s National Trust gardens we saw they’d got a Beatrix Potter inspired winter trail for children to follow. We didn’t do it as we didn’t have a youth to provide cover for us, but it did amuse me that right by the first poster we saw 

was a real life Squirrel Nutkin scrabbling about amongst the wet leaves. They’re the same in our garden, often burying tasty bits from the bird seed just a couple of steps from the tray and never remembering where they left them. That would be the reason we had tiny, late Sunflowers growing in some of our pots.

Because I took photos of the posters I decided I’d go through my pictures trying to match them up here.

We didn’t look for pine cones at Bateman’s but these rather splendid examples were at Sheffield Park Gardens a couple of months back. I really like the play of light on this picture.

and a lovely finished door wreath at Standen House. I don’t know if the occupant’s called McGregor.

I think the Gardeners at Batemans are wise to hungry Rabbits, although I suspect, that like the ones in our patch, they just can’t, or won’t read the signs, we actually have a collective noun for our bunnies - The Nibblers.

There are supposed to be certain plants they steer away from, such as anything onion scented. My experience is they’ll chovel away at anything and just leave it if it’s not to their taste. And don’t even start me on the day I got up to see my resplendent parsley pots had all had a buzz cut.

When we get produce from National Trust gardens, we always pay at the till or the honesty box rather than embark on a scrumping trip.

Flowers from Scotney Castle Walled Garden

Cherries, Courgette and French Beans from Sissinghurst vegetable gardens

Last year we really missed not being able to pick up some goodies. Sissinghurst usually turns up some real treasures, asparagus; fantastic fine beans including a purple variety as above; cherries - for which Kent is quite renown and the most memorable and best tasting courgette of my life.

Medlar Pear against the late Autumn/Winter sky (Bateman’s)

Our very own Flopsy, Mopsy or Cottontail doesn’t seem to have any problems. Crow usually leaves out a trail of carrot peelings for them too.

If you’re in the mood for baking, I found these recipes

Epicurious Winter Fruit Pie with a walnut crumb

Summer Berry Pie

I saw this Blackbird in the Mulberry Garden at Batemans once. It looked for all the world like it was saying ‘You there - No! Entry denied’ Whether it was repelling under the gate or over the wall invaders, it certainly looked like a very stern guardian.

Well, we found the broom for Mrs T and I’ve got something spiky in my library of photos

There were quite a few huge Sweet Chestnut trees at Petworth House - not to be confused with Horse Chestnut, whose fruits are inedible, but good for playing Conkers with

and plenty of fallen leaves in our garden at home

Hhmm, the Jeremy Fisher poster was right by the Lily Pond. I’m not at all sure those fish are meant to be caught and if he did try angling there, he might hook up with rather more than he bargained for.

Jeremy should have headed down to the River.

My Duck and feather photos came from the visit to Sheffield Park

The Ducks there are so used to people you can get really close up.

and there are plenty of feathers on the ground from their grooming sessions.

Field mouse, also known as wood mouse, is the most common and widespread mouse species in the UK. They can be tricky to spot during the day: they're lightning quick and are nocturnal. They sleep in burrows when it's light and venture out to forage during the evenings.

You might be familiar with my dislike of rodents <shudder> but one Summer we did see Field Mice playing in the shrubbery at dusk. They move in a very different way from House Mice, there’s less scurrying and more skipping, I guess that makes them a bit sweeter somehow, to my eyes anyway.

as sculpted by Ms NW tY

No Snow Rabbit, just my favourite Snow Cat again and finally some archive photos of the garden under snow.

It can be very pleasant to look at if it’s a gentle covering, but The so called Beast from the East in 2018 caused widespread chaos. We’ve not had snow here yet this Winter, although apparently another similar phenomenon is forecast. Fingers crossed we escape it this time.

What I Learned Today:

The author Beatrix Potter was born in 1866 and died in 1943. She wrote 30 books, 23 of which were the famed children’s tales. In her 30s she started by self publishing but became very successful and still is today. There’s an awful lot more to her than you might have known so it’s worth reading more on the link. I was amazed. She and her husband were very interested in conservation and she bequeathed her Grade II* farmhouse retreat to the National Trust on her death, in fact...

She left nearly all her property to the National Trust, including over 4,000 acres (16 km2) of land, sixteen farms, cottages and herds of cattle and Herdwick sheep. Hers was the largest gift at that time to the National Trust, and it enabled the preservation of the land now included in the Lake District National Park and the continuation of fell farming.

Potter's study and watercolours of fungi led to her being widely respected in the field of mycology. 

 With the proceeds from the books and a legacy from an aunt, Potter bought Hill Top Farm in Near Sawrey in 1905; this is a village in the Lake District in the county of Cumbria. Over the following decades, she purchased additional farms to preserve the unique hill country landscape.            Wikipedia

[just-kit-ink]

All the rest of WFRR characters loll

*deep breath*

//Okay let's do this! I'm only doing characters that were created for the movie/those that had the most screentime.

Part 1/2

Lt. Santino

1: sexuality headcanon: We never really see/hear about a significant other in the film but I'm going to headcanon that he's bisexual but closeted.

2: otp: ? Maybe he has a lover we don't know about who also works at the police station.

3: brotp: Him and Eddie Valiant of course!

4: notp: Him with Jessica or Dolores

5: first headcanon that pops into my head: That he's been a friend of Eddie's since his brother was still alive and on the force. That he doesn't have as much of a prejudice towards toons as his detective buddy does.

6: favorite line from this character: "Marvin Acme...the rabbit CACKED him last night!"

7: one way in which I relate to this character: He has to look away when Doom dips the shoe.

8: thing that gives me second hand embarrassment about this character: That he treats Eddie's drinking problem as an inconvinience instead of an addiction.

9: cinnamon roll or problematic fave?: Complete cinnamon roll, just a very professional one.

Marvin Acme

1: sexuality headcanon: He likes the laaaaddiies

2: otp: Don't know? I always assumed he was already married and if not that at least has a string of messy affairs/seperations with both human and toon women.

3: brotp: I'll bet he was at least on speaking terms with RK Maroon before his death.

4: notp: Him and Jessica Rabbit of any sort, even fake for the cameras.

5: first headcanon that pops into my head: He's pulled the disappearing ink trick with wealthier and scarier people. Some found it amusing, others earned him a black eye.

6: favorite line from this character: "Oh it's a Panic!"

7: one way in which I relate to this character: I love cartoons and I laugh a lot.

8: thing that gives me second hand embarrassment about this character: The fact that he keeps on pestering Eddie with his gags even after Eddie has made it clear that he's not in the mood. Also the Patty-Cake pictures, where he's making all those sounds but you can't see what's happening!

9: cinnamon roll or problematic fave?: A little bit of both. On one hand, he loves what he does and clearly has a respect for Toons but he also did business with Maroon which eventually lead to his death at the hands of Judge Doom.

Dolores

1: sexuality headcanon: Heterosexual and in love/going steady with Eddie Valiant

2: otp: Dolores and Eddie

3: brotp: Also her and Eddie as well as her and Roger but I quite like the idea of her being good friends with Jessica.

4: notp: Her and any of her patrons.

5: first headcanon that pops into my head: That she and Eddie love Catalina so much because it was where they met. Eddie, Teddy and their father were doing a circus show there and needed a volunteer from the audience. He pulled a bouquet out of thin air and gave it to her and then pretended to saw her in half - it was so romantic!

6: favorite line from this character: Too many! She's such a sass mouth! "Dabbling in watercolours, Eddie?" "Is that a rabbit in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?" and "Is he always this funny or only on days when he's wanted for murder?"

7: one way in which I relate to this character: That she works hard and is tired all the time.

8: thing that gives me second hand embarrassment about this character: The scene where she sees Eddie and Jessica together and Eddie's trousers have fallen down while Jessie is talking to him and it looks...bad. Doesn't help tt he bumps his head on her chest as he goes to pull them up.

9: cinnamon roll or problematic fave?: Cinnamon roll that you don't want to mess with!

Baby Herman

1: sexuality headcanon: He loves human women...and is possibly a little bit gay for some male toons. (But the idea of that is weird to me, because he's literally a baby it's like shipping Stewie Griffen with someone.)

2: otp: Him and his human girlfriend that you see in the movie. I think she's just credited as "Ms Herman."

3: brotp: Baby Herman and Roger Rabbit. Before Roger started being late to rehearsals and messing up his cues, they were best friends.

4: notp: Probably him and Jessica, although he is very envious of Roger.

5: first headcanon that pops into my head: He plays both male and female baby roles. That everything in his home is baby-themed, right down to the giant cot and mobile. If he needs anything, he calls his mistress via a baby monitor.

6: favorite line from this character: "The whole thing stinks like yesterday's diapers!" and "What da hell was wrong with that take?!"

7: one way in which I relate to this character: Looks pure but is actually a foul-mouth.

8: thing that gives me second hand embarrassment about this character: When he throws a tantrum because he dropped his cigar after Eddie pushed his pram down the hall...and when he darts underneath a woman's skirt...and the fact that he claims to have a "50 year old lust and a 3 year old dinky..." Wtf.

9: cinnamon roll or problematic fave?: Both. He's a baby who chain smokes and can wrap anyone around his little finger by offering to pay them.

Benny the Cab

1: sexuality headcanon: Well he's a car, so I don't think gender's an issue. If you're wheels are shined and you got a nice set of headlights, he doesn't mind.

2: otp: I'd pair him with a nice flower-glass Corvette.

3: brotp: Benny and Roger. He is Roger's car after all.

4: notp: Him and any human character.

5: first headcanon that pops into my head: That he also often appears in Roger Rabbit shorts, as the vehicle for a quick getaway during a chase, or comedic car wash scene.

6: favorite line from this character: "Sister, Mary Francis, what the hell happened in here?" and "I can't believe they locked me up for driving on the sidewalk!"

7: one way in which I relate to this character: Likes helping, makes sarcastic quips.

8: thing that gives me second hand embarrassment about this character: That he drives straight through the Dip and burns his tires and has to waddle over to Roger when he finds him which is like the equivalent of burning your feet with acid to him. Also, when he tells Roger to be careful using a real gun because "this ain't no cartoon ya know!" ...As he, a car, drives away in his own car.

9: cinnamon roll or problematic fave?: Cinnamon roll unless you're a fan of the Brooklyn Dodgers.

Smartass Weasel

1: sexuality headcanon: I'm going to go with pansexual. He only cares if you have status and are not human (though that doesn't mean he hasn't had a fling with one or two.)

2: otp: No love interest in the film. Although I'm kind of a sucker for a tough guy character falling for a really sweet and innocent character.

3: brotp: Him and the rest of the Toon Patrol. He does care for them and he only hits them for laughing because he knows they are suscepitable to dying from it. Also, I feel like he would have gotten along better with Eddie Valiant had he not fallen in with Judge Doom because they're both bitter and hate the industry.

4: notp: I would say him and Doom. Or any of his boys.

5: first headcanon that pops into my head: That he was drawn to be wicked but not a villain. He has multiple other items aside from his suit that are bright pink because he likes to dress flashy...and that the only people exempt from potential target by his patrol are children.

6: favorite line from this character: Honestly, every line of his is terrific. "Step outta line and we'll leave you and your laundry out to dry!" "Say Boss, what do we do with the wallflower?" and "Want us to disresemble the place?"

7: one way in which I relate to this character: Small but feisty.

8: thing that gives me second hand embarrassment about this character: That all his team members get cute little toon ghosts when they die but he just...dissolves in Dip.

9: cinnamon roll or problematic fave?: Problematic fave definetly! But even though he's mean, sneaky and carries a lot of weapons, he's also funny, charming and I can't help but feel a bit sorry for him because he was just tryig to please his boss. Weasels certainly are assigned villain roles in cartoons and maybe he was just fed up with it so he decided to become a real one.

Greasy Weasel

1: sexuality headcanon: Heterosexual, biromantic...and he's an utter sex-pest.

2: otp: He needs someone who can reign him and his desires in so he can actually focus on whatever he's doing.

3: brotp: Him and the rest of the Toon Patrol, especially Smartass. He admires his boss' attitude.

4: notp: Him and Jessica. Their encounter in the film is cringe-worthy to watch.

5: first headcanon that pops into my head: That he has a gentler, romantic side deep down but doesn't want to show it because he has too much bravado.

6: favorite line from this character: "I'll handle this one..." followed closely by a LOT of uncensored Spanish curse words!

7: one way in which I relate to this character: We both get crushes easily.

8: thing that gives me second hand embarrassment about this character: When he reaches down Jessica's dress. He's so confident until her hidden bear-trap clamps onto his hand. He probably replayed the first three seconds beforehand over and over in his head though.

9: cinnamon roll or problematic fave?: Problematic fav for sure! Perverted, knife-wielding henchman who reaches into someone's bosom in a canon Disney movie. Yet, he's still weirdly adorable. If he were human, I might say different.

Wheezy Weasel

1: sexuality headcanon: I'm just going to say it...I headcanon him as gay and asexual.

2: otp: Don't really see him with anyone unless they're another smoker, (or are willing to put up with smoke.)

3: brotp: Definetly him and Stupid! Look at the way they drill through the wall together and laugh at our hero's predicaments towards the end if the film! They're great pals, having a good time!

4: notp: Him and Greasy.

5: first headcanon that pops into my head: He enjoys Camel cigarettes the best. And he's the best card player in the group.

6: favorite line from this character: It's so funny because he doesn't have many lines in the movie so I'm just going to say his dialogue from the Cartoon Spin ride at Disneyland "But Boss, Benny knows ToonTown, like the back of his tread!" and his laugh.

7: one way that I relate to this character: Chill most days until I see or hear something funny then I lose it.

8: thing that gives me second hand embarrassment about this character: The fact that he tries to grab onto his ghost to try and pull it back into his body before it leaves.

9: cinnamon roll or problematic fave?: Problematic fav. Carries a tommy gun and is not afraid to use it, knows that smoking won't do him any harm since he's a toon and is good at following orders even if they're immoral.

Psycho Weasel

1: sexuality headcanon: N/A Psycho is like the family dog. A feral one...that was rescued from the streets.

2: otp: None. Unless you like snuggling, just mind the teeth.

3: brotp: Psycho and Stupid as well as him and Wheezy. Wheezy is like a parent looking after him and Stupid is like his sibling.

4: notp: Basically him with any other character.

5: first headcanon that pops into my head: He doesn't really use his barber-shop razor for anything nefarious, but he likes how threatening he looks with it. Also, when you scratch behind his ear, his leg does the scritch thing where he kicks behind it.

6: favorite line from this character: "Time to kill the raaaabbbit...hee hee!"

7: one way in which I relate to this character: We're both a bit mad. He's just toonier. And we laugh like maniacs.

8: thing that gives me second hand embarrassment about this character: When Eddie Valiant just straight up kicks him across across the bar when he tries to attack him.

9: cinnamon roll or problematic fave?: I'm going to say he's a problematic cinnamon roll. He has no problem doing wicked things but he's too small and cute to really be considered awful. At one point Eddie snatches Marvin Acme's will out of his hands and he looks like a kicked puppy. He bad but he baby.

Stupid Weasel

1: sexuality headcanon: A hopeless romantic for anyone, but too dumb to realise when someone's flirting with him.

2: otp: I like the idea of him and an equally dim character so they can both be ignorant and happy together.

3: brotp: Stupid and Psycho. They're just the children of the patrol.

4: notp: Him with his boys or human characters.

5: first headcanon that pops into my head: He once got into a heated argument with another weasel who had broken into their hideout until Smartass informed him he was looking at a mirror.

6: favorite line from this character: Again, he gets hardly any lines. "Boss! Look at the little birdies!"

7: one way in which I relate to this character: I have my moments where common sense just leaves me.

8: thing that gives me second hand embarrassment about this character: Him falling backwards into a row of humans at the bar when he is pushed by Eddie. They just...goes right down, like bowling pins or dominos.

9: cinnamon roll or problematic fave?: Despite being in the Toon Patrol he's a total cinnamon roll. I don't even think he knows what he's doing half the time and that's really sweet.

[thisiscomics]

A good use of the colour section here, as we get to see the children’s book that appeared to upset Johan so much in the previous volume. The colours help to add to the effect of a book within a book, clearly marking the unreal fairy story as distinct to the black and white events of the ‘real’ world. Not that it would be particularly unclear without colour, given the stylistic shift (which is a little reminiscent of Jill Thompson’s work, in the line work just as much as in the colour scheme and use of watercolours- it wouldn’t be at all jarring, visually, to see this monster associating with the Scary Godmother.  Tonally, though, it’s safe to say the monster would have no time for Scary’s hi-jinks.) and the typeset captions, but the colour neatly adds to the experience, and it’s easy to imagine this section existing as a- rather disturbing- picture book.

Something I’ve noticed with the Monster colour sections is the interesting way that they fade in and out. They don’t take the approach of simply being in colour for a number of pages until they revert to black and white, which seems to be the most common approach. Instead they can fade in and out, with pages using a more limited palette for a while, as though to allow readers time to adjust to the colouring, or its fade out. I assume from reading other books that such an adjustment period isn’t really necessary, since I’ve never noticed it before, but here it gives a feeling of stylistic choice to the coloured sections, as though we are fading into/out of a different scene, instead of abruptly cutting.

This may just be the way the original serialisation was printed, and I am ascribing style to a standard printing process- I really don’t know much about the original Big Comic Original magazine, or the general format of manga. I’m certainly not clear on how the colour sections are allocated. I have always kind of assumed it’s to do with their position in the magazine, a little like how British comics would shift strips around when the colour printing was limited to a handful of pages, so that different strips might take turns at getting their shot in the four colour limelight (the front and back, then the centrefold, were the sections I remember being in colour in 2000AD, but I think there were other options, and as colour printing dropped in price, it was possible to print more than just a couple of pages in full colour, so that there were increases in colour pages until the day everything was finally colour. Paper quality was also a factor in the b&w/colour shift, and I suppose the fact that manga are printed on low cost paper is a parallel to the UK weeklies, and another reason to favour black and white. That rough, newsprint paper doesn’t take colour particularly well.). Which makes me wonder how much planning there needs to be to allow Urasawa to get the right chapter in colour for his storytelling requirements- presumably you either need to know when you next get a colour section and plan your plot scripts accordingly, or perhaps have a sympathetic editor that you can persuade to help you gain the necessary access to the colour printer?

I am just not familiar with how it works at all, and need to go find out- I’ve always assumed that Japanese readers place less emphasis on colour somehow being a sign of quality (which seems to be the Western attitude, where monochrome is often deemed boring in film and comics alike), and so colour sections are just seen as something that crops up from time to time in the story. This is the exact opposite of the Epic editions of Akira, which would have been the first manga I saw, with every page fully coloured by Steve Oliff. Only as more titles made the shelves- or caught my attention- did I realise that black and white was the norm for the medium, just like it was for the bulk of American indie comics. Suddenly it seemed that perhaps our limited colour weeklies were not so old fashioned as I first thought....

From “Monster Kapitel 71. The Nameless Monster” by Naoki Urasawa, in Monster Volume 5

[doodlewash]

My name is Carolyn Breen Morton, but I have gone by the nickname “Charlie” since about 4 years of age. I am 62 and a retired teacher from Barrie, Ontario, Canada.  Art has always been part of my life, but like many artists, I felt at times that I lacked talent and imagination. My husband’s advice, “Draw every day and you will get where you want to go.” He was right.

I have followed the urban sketching movement for a few years and knew that this was the art form that interested me most. I started to sketch architecture a few years ago. My art is posted on Instagram and Pinterest and clearly shows my progression from very tight and controlled, to looser and more whimsical.  I draw every day if possible and my motivation comes from several places.

I want to improve and consistently change my style.  I love what I do but always feel that there is lots more inside of me.  I want my family to see that anything can be accomplished, at any stage of life.  I want to record life as I see it for my grandchildren.

My collection will be theirs one day and I have already started to teach them the value of artistic expression.  This portable, passive, visual journaling is a wonderful skill to carry with you through life!

Favorite Art Supplies

I love Fabriano and Arches paper, 140 lb cold pressed, when I am working on detailed sketches.  I will try out rough ideas on absolutely any paper that will hold paint, therefore my sketchbook collection is varied and formidable.  I find that my style changes slightly, depending on the size of paper I use so I often cut it into different sizes for variety.  My favourite size is 8” x 10”.

When I use a sketchbook, it is most often a Stillman and Birn Beta series.  I find the paper to be good quality and it will hold up to lots of glazing and washes.  It comes in an 8” x 10” format which is large enough yet portable.

I seldom plan anything with pencil as I find drawing in ink both challenging and exciting.  If I make a mistake, I just work with it.  I use a Lamy fountain pen with an extra fine nib and waterproof ink and also Sakura Pigma Micron pens in every size. Sakura’s calligraphy pens work wonderfully when shading large areas.

I am a bit of a paint junkie. Schmincke is my absolute favourite but I also use M. Graham and Daniel Smith.

My brushes are always synthetic (due to personal beliefs) and I love my Escoda round #6 and #12.  Big brushes bring whimsy to a painting and I will often use nothing but a #12 round, even for the detail.  I don’t worry about staying in the lines. I heard an artist once say, “Always use the biggest brush you can.” and that advice really works for me and my style.

Finally, I love to collect what I call props.  I collect small die-cast British cars. I sketch a lot of British architecture and never feel that I have to be completely true to the scene.

I will sketch in one of my cars at exactly the angle I want.  I also have a die-cast scooter and phone booth that come in handy as detail pieces. My props collection is growing as I am now looking for bicycles, dogs and mailboxes.

Some Tips That Really Helped Me

• Watch and read everything you can about the type of art that you want to produce. For me, the internet is rich with urban sketching classes, posts, groups and meetups.

• Try to avoid straight lines and it will bring whimsy and happiness into your sketches. Things a little crooked work wonderfully

• Draw what you love!  I cannot lie… I love a good pub in England and have had lots of personal experiences in them so many of my sketches are pubs. Old architecture fascinates me so I draw lots of houses, shops, churches, and restaurants. Most places that I sketch I have visited, but certainly not all.

• Don’t worry about what your ‘style’ is.  It will emerge all by itself.  You take little things from other artists and make them your own. You have ideas in the middle of the night and can’t wait to incorporate them first thing in the morning. You start to look at the world in a whole new light and notice things that you really want to draw or add to an existing sketch.

• Forget the rules.  Draw from photos, on location, or from imagination. It doesn’t matter.  You will get very proficient in getting what is in your head onto the paper. Buy good supplies but don’t be afraid to sketch on a napkin in a coffee shop. In the end, just sit down and make some art and you will amaze yourself. It is in us all!

Prints will be available in the spring of 2020. Follow me on Instagram for further details.

Charlie (Carolyn) Breen Instagram Pinterest

  GUEST ARTIST: "Happily Addicted To Daily Art" By Charlie (Carolyn) Breen - #doodlewash #WorldWatercolorGroup #watercolour #watercolor #usk My name is Carolyn Breen Morton, but I have gone by the nickname “Charlie” since about 4 years of age.

[maddie-longson]

Mid-Sem Crit

For our mid-semester crit our group of four had to present 2 concepts in pairs based off the work we had done so far. Our first concept was the one we had been working on together to this point. It is the idea of the two massing models that I had annotated - a single volume that allows for the existing circulation to move through, and also has the various activities to be performed inside intermingling by mixing the various environments required for each activity (gardens of various light/water levels, rock, paved surfaces etc). This concept was presented by Jessica and Zaina after we discussed the main ideas we wanted shown in it. As it is essentially unchanged from the original massing model annotations that I have done, these are those again:

While those group members worked on that first concept, Kate and I were particularly interested in pursuing an idea that had cropped up before while doing concept drawings for our massing models. It is a development of the original concept, which focuses on hands-on learning, and adds in further emphasis on the Montessori value or discovery. We felt that this concept had the potential to encompass all of the values we needed to meet from the brief. We called it the "maze concept". Essentially, to focus more on the idea of discovery, we were interesting in what might happen if walls or dividers were added between space. While it may control the space a little more, giving a little less freedom, we felt that this was offset by what people and the space might gain from it. By adding in dividing walls, it allows for a sense of discovery and exploration as you move through the spaces. By separating the spaces from one another, we felt that we would be able to cater for each activity we wanted happening throughout the space. It would allow for the specific environments best suited to the activities to be put in place, rather than having a selection of sub-optimal environments overlapping in one larger space (as would be the case if you were trying to put a bunch of contrasting environments side by side, they would influence one another and nothing would be quite right). This aspect is what made us feel that this concept could be considered a development of the first. While it may have a slightly different focus, we felt it would solve several issues that we hadn't even realised existed with the previous design.

To represent our concept (but by no means display an exact layout of the space) Kate did this section:

And I did this annotated massing model:

In both of these drawings, but particularly the section, something that we started to also consider through this concept was the idea of different levels. Potentially being underground may be of benefit to certain activities (cool, dark, could be calm or creepy - but calm is probably what we want to go for).

Together we worked on a collection of atmospheric drawings or representations of the overall space. The original watercolours of the drawings was from the first concept, and showed the mixing and intermingling of the different activities taking place. The series shows the progression of our thinking from a relatively strict grid of maze, to something with variable sizes in the spaces, to something that had more organic shapes. We settled on this final idea as something to continue with as the organic forms closely relate to both the Montessori values and some of the ideas we were trying to get across from our precedents (later): 

These seemed to capture the critics interest the most and we felt that we agreed - they are certainly the most intriguing aspect of this concept to continue with. In particular, we are thinking about how we might arrange this organic form of walls to be more than what it is now - a pretty picture with lines placed just so to look nice - and give meaning to every wall we place and every space we create.

Things we are going to use to continue developing this concept are certain important aspects of the site analysis and our two precedents.

Site analysis:

Shadows and sun direction at particular times of the day and year and going to be of huge importance to our design as we will want our environments within to be appropriately placed when considering the light and heat they will gain. 

Vegetation is something we haven't considered all that much yet, but would like to start considering greatly. Being able to incorporate not just the protected trees but all of the trees on the site into our design would be hugely influential on our spaces, and also provide unique environments that couldn't be made immediately by planting new trees. The critics were interested in us pursuing this aspect of the design further.

The third part of the site analysis that we presented was the human activity on site. In particular, the circulation is important to consider. As we are creating a maze-like form, it is important that our structure doesn't greatly interfere with the current circulation path - people must find it easy enough to still move through the structure to get to their destination, and not be deterred from the area all together. The circulation path is also a huge opportunity though, as we hope to design something that is intriguing and interesting enough to entice people off the path and into our building to explore.

My precedent:

The ideas from this one were that of sustainability and functionality that comes from the corn being the dividing "walls" and the idea of exploration and discovery with the maze-like formation and the pavilions that provide different environments for play and introspection.

Kate’s precedent:

The ideas from this one were that of a total work of art (gesamtkunstwerk). This is because that aligns well with the idea of creating an interesting space that draws people in and is a little bit fantastical to spark the imagination. The super-deep window sills also provide little hidey-holes for the children, which again relates to our emphasis on discovery with this concept.

[tothelasthoursofmylife]

“It was the start of a long journey.”

HEART OF ENGLAND ARC

“Never close your lips to those whom you have already opened your heart.”

— Charles Dickens

London, England, United Kingdom – February 1846

~Cloudia~

 My aunt Felicity was the patron of a little art gallery in London, and as I was currently living with her due to emergency repairs at my townhouse – evidence that not just the usage, but also the neglect of things could break them – it was only natural for me to accompany her to the reception for the newest exhibition at said gallery.

I didn’t have to particularly like it though.

  The Layton Art Gallery surely was not located in a building anyone would describe as “large” when looking at it from the outside. As soon as you walked over its threshold, however, you soon realised that you were gravely mistaken: A humble overground structure and numerous basements with convoluted corridors and “hidden” rooms tricked visitors regarding the gallery’s actual size and allowed them to truly get “lost” in the building’s clever architecture – and, of course, in the labyrinth of paintings and drawings, of statues and busts.

Cloudia had been walking through these corridors for over two hours now and she was still surprised to turn around a corner and find more paths and paintings she had not seen before.

  This made me worry a little bit about how I should find my way back to the ground floor. Only the Pyramids of Giza were more devilishly designed than this place!

  Despite the art gallery’s infuriating structure, Cloudia eventually grew to like it as it was, after all, just a wonderful big puzzle she had to solve. Her thought that, if this place had so many nooks and crannies there had to be a less crowded or even empty area somewhere, certainly added to her fondness. And indeed, after a long period of trial and error and a lot of small talk, Cloudia finally found the most likely least crowded room in the Layton Art Gallery – if you could even call it “crowded” when there was only one other person around.

“May I?” asked Cloudia when she walked up to the bench on which the man was sitting.

He turned his head to her, blinking at her with his hazel eyes. Now able to see his face, Cloudia immediately recognised him as Baron Milton Salisbury from the reception.

She had helped her aunt and cousin to greet each of the many guests, and when it was Milton’s turn to step up, he had not only caught Cloudia’s interest because of the mourning clothes he was wearing or because of the name by which he introduced himself – she hadn’t heard that the last Baron Salisbury had died, hadn’t even known that he had any relations to whom he could pass his title – but also because his gaze had lingered a moment too long on her face right before he had bowed to her and walked into the main hall. When she had asked Keegan about Milton, he had told her that Milton was the previous Baron’s only son and that Leland Salisbury had passed away last December. These pieces of information had only sparked a new question in her: If his father had died only two months ago, why was Milton in public again? Weren’t you supposed to stay away from society for six months? Cloudia had wished for Keegan to be able to say more, but their greeting duty had kept him too busy to do so.

The order in reception lines was arranged after title and status, and as only a few titled nobles were present but numerous members of the gentry and rich businessmen, Milton had not been one of the last ones to announce himself; he had been one of the first. And so, Cloudia had been too busy to inquire about him again, and when, finally, the last guest had entered the gallery, it had been time for the opening speech and, afterwards, everyone had either mingled together or gone downstairs to take a look at the exhibition. Just when she had spotted Milton, the crowd had swallowed him up a second later, and she herself had been dragged to the basements by the masses.

And now, here he was.

“Of course you may, Lady Phantomhive,” said Milton Salisbury and stood up.

“Oh no, I don’t mean to chase you away, Baron! Don’t let me interrupt you and please sit back down.”

“I surely did not think that you meant to chase me away, Mylady. I am sorry that I made you believe this. I only want to go because it is the proper thing to do considering that you are unchaperoned.”

Cloudia shook her head. “It is fine; there is nobody else here anyway. And if one of us should leave, it should be me – after all, you were here first, and I was the one who interrupted you. Not vice versa. So, all I am asking you, Baron Salisbury, is this: May I keep you company for a little while even if I am without a chaperone? Or does it bother you too much? If this is indeed the case, I can go.”

“No, I guess, it will be fine,” Milton said after a while. To her surprise, his voice was steady when he spoke. She had thought that he would sound at least slightly uneasy. “If keeping me company is what you want, Lady Phantomhive, I see no reason to reject your request. Please, take a seat.”

“Thank you,” Cloudia replied and sat down on the bench. After a while, Milton sat down on the bench’s edge.

From the corner of her eye, Cloudia observed Milton clutching his hands together and looking at the painting hanging at the opposite wall. He had already stared at it when she had come; what was so fascinating about it that he could not take his eyes away from it? For Cloudia, it was nothing more than a watercolour depiction of a green, undulating landscape which was parted by a river; a little village nestled alongside it. The artist had done a wonderful job at capturing not only this place’s beauty but also its serene, calming atmosphere: The longer she looked at it, the more she felt like she was actually there. Still, Cloudia could not understand why Milton kept looking at it – it was only a beautiful landscape drawing and nothing particularly spectacular.

  How curious.

  They continued to sit next to each other in complete silence. Cloudia craned her head to look at the other drawings and small statues in the room, but every time she glimpsed back to Milton, she saw that his gaze was still fixed on the landscape drawing. A few times she had considered to start a conversation, only to drop the idea right afterwards. Cloudia didn’t want to disturb him in whatever he was doing – obsessively studying the painting? meditating? perhaps it somehow reminded him of his late father and was soothing to him – and had she not come here because she didn’t want to talk to anyone for a while? Even though the entire situation was quite strange, just sitting here in complete silence and being surrounded by pretty drawings did indeed calm her down and revitalise her after she had been drained from talking to others for hours and hours. And after a few more completely relaxed moments, Cloudia could not help herself but doze off…

Eventually, Milton stood up again, and the movement woke her. “Thank you for having been so kind as to keep me company, Lady Phantomhive,” he said softly, bowing his head to her. “It was a pleasure, but now, I have to excuse myself. I wish you a nice day, Mylady.”

Cloudia nodded at him, sleep still clinging to her. With a little but brilliant smile on his lips, Milton left, and shortly afterwards, Keegan stepped into the room.

“There you are, Cloudia! I was searching for you.”

“I am sorry; I needed a pause from all this hubbub,” Cloudia said and stood up, blinking the rest of her fatigue away. “Did I miss anything important?”

“No. I simply wondered where you were,” Keegan told her, frowning at one of the paintings. He might not seem like it, but out of all her cousins, he was the most worrisome, most protective one. As he was the only boy in their generation, he had always been told to keep an eye on his cousins; even if he was not, Cloudia didn’t doubt that he would have done so anyway.

“What were you even doing here?” he asked.

“Just sitting and enjoying the silence,” Cloudia said and glimpsed at the little plate below the apparently very captivating drawing – Landscape in watercolour (est. 1824-1827), unknown artist.

“You sat here all on your own? You did not do anything else?”

She frowned at him. “What do you mean that I ‘sat here all on my own’? Didn’t you see my companion? He left right before you came.”

“‘He’? I didn’t see anyone. Cloudia, don’t tell me…”

“Don’t worry, Keegan; I’m just teasing you,” she said, walking to him. Grinning, she tucked her arm into his. “There was absolutely no one here with me.”

  ***

 On the road from London to Dover, England, United Kingdom – June 1848

  ~Cedric~

 “The sun had risen to its highest point on the 13th of June when I, Cedric Kristopher Rossdale, first of my name, was travelling on one of the trains of the South Eastern Railway into a part of Britain which was known to many men, but not to me. To me, my destination – or, at least, my scheduled, my apparent destination; who could know what detours this creature of metal and wood may take to taunt me? – was the Great Unknown.

“Long ago, people had mapped and charted said areas; as I had no particular interest in old, ugly maps, I had not taken a look at them. This only manifested the entire mystery behind this part of England for me. Oh, how mysterious this place to which I was to go! What dangers may await me in this foreign land?

“In this foreign land to which I was dragged, kidnapped I daresay, by such force unimaginable to extraordinary men, let alone ordinary! And the reason for my kidnapping was as much strewn in mystery as these wondrous, faraway lands and plains! My life was hanging on a thread! A thin, disentangling thread! If I lived to complete my accounts, it would be a curious thing indeed…”

  “Undertaker, stop staring out of the window and dramatically mumbling nonsense to yourself or else I will throw you out of said window – even if it means to pay the repair costs,” said Cloudia, glaring at him.

Cedric turned to her. They had met at the train station in London in the early morning hours, and still half asleep, he had allowed Cloudia to drag him onto the train and to their cabin where he had promptly fallen asleep. He had briefly woken up when they had arrived in Ashford and had to change trains. Only with great struggle, Cedric had managed to keep himself awake for the second part of their travel.

The last two days had been awfully busy as he had had to run back and forth between reaping souls all around the London area and the Management Division to get his application for leave. The only reason why Cedric had even managed to get his request permitted on time was that the Management Reapers had eventually grown tired and annoyed of him and his leave, after all, equalled that they would get some peaceful, restive weeks as well. In all the excitement, however, Cedric had been unable to ask Cloudia about any details regarding their little trip to the continent. And when he had fully shaken away his sleepiness, Cloudia had been reading – and he had learned over the past year and a half that when Cloudia Phantomhive was reading, it was painfully difficult to catch her attention. If she didn’t stop herself, the chances of making her look up from her book were rather low. Fortunately, thoroughly annoying others had always been Cedric Rossdale’s forte.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said. “You are the one who keeps ignoring me. First, you do so for two months and now, you are doing it again! Did you grow tired of me, Countess?”

Cloudia blinked at him, closed her book, and put it away. “Well, you fell asleep as soon as you sat down. And as you were looking terribly tired all day – you were also pleasantly silent – I thought that it was better to let you sleep.”

“What were you even reading?” Cedric asked. The train stopped in Folkestone and it got a bit loud and tumultuous outside as people got off and on.

She held up her book. “Agnes Grey. Acton Bell’s second book is scheduled to come out later this month, and I wanted to reread his – or her or their – first one before the release.”

He frowned. “‘His or her or their’?”

“There is a lot of speculation surrounding the three Bells that suddenly appeared in England’s literary world – Currer, Ellis, and Acton. Currer Bell is the one who wrote Jane Eyre, do you remember? People are wondering if they are even men or three individuals or just one person or perhaps even a pair – a husband and a wife or a brother and a sister. I do think that they are different people – their writing styles are too different – but I believe they are, in fact, women. Only women can become governesses, and, at least, Currer and Acton Bell seem to know the life of governesses a bit too well.”

“Ah, you did not tell me this before.” He leaned back. “I am always a bit surprised when you read something that is not Dickens.”

“I have the complete, bound version of Dombey and Son in my trunk if you need proof that I am me.”

Cedric smiled. “I don’t. Now, back to my question: What are we even doing? Is this even a real Watchdog case or did the Queen randomly send us to holidays again? This time under the guise of a case?”

“It is a real Watchdog case,” Cloudia said. She waited until the train had left the station again and the commotion was over before she continued.

“Undertaker, have you heard of the Chartist movement?”

“I don’t think so; the name doesn’t sound familiar to me.”

She sighed. “This does not surprise me at all. You need to work more to stay in touch with the world; it will definitely benefit you and reading a newspaper every now and then surely doesn’t hurt. Well, let us talk about Chartism.

“It is the name of a movement of working-class members which came into existence in 1838. The name comes from the People’s Charter, a bill written by William Lovett of the London Working Men’s Association – one of the predecessors of the Chartist movement – and eleven other people. In this charter, Lovett describes the six main goals of Chartism: that all men above the age of twenty-one should be able to vote as long as they have the mental capacities to make a sound vote and aren’t criminals, that voting by secret ballot should be introduced, that members of the Parliament should be paid, that everyone should be able to become a member of the Parliament regardless of property or wealth, that the electoral districts should be equal, and that the Parliament should be elected every year anew instead of every five years. The movement’s goals did not change at all in the last decade; to make the House of Commons approve these six points is all they want and nothing more. In the last years, the situation of the working class people only worsened, and all their hope at improving their situation lies in receiving the right to vote. Currently, only those with property can vote, and members of the working class do not fulfil this criterion. That’s why the Chartist movement came to be – to give them a voice.

“So far, the Chartists presented three petitions detailing their propositions to the House of Commons. All of them were rejected. The first one from June 1839 was signed by more than a million people, their second one from May 1842 by over three million. Support and enthusiasm for the Chartist movement peaked around the times they presented their petitions to the Parliament, and every time they were dismissed, people became even more frustrated than they already are and the rejections were always followed by unrests. The movement, however, is characterised by the fact that it seldom resorts to violence – mostly only Chartist groups in Yorkshire and South Wales try to achieve their goals by violent means. Following the rejection of their first petition, Chartists engineered a revolt which resulted in numerous members of the movement to be arrested, sent to prison or to Australia; ever since they learned to be more moderate. Can you follow me?”

Cedric nodded. “Sure. Chartists. Angry, frustrated working class people wanting to vote. Turned down petitions.”

“Good. This April, the Chartists handed in their third petition, but as I’ve said before, this one was dismissed as well. This time, however, the aftermath turned out different than before: On the one hand, working-class people are becoming more and more disheartened, and more and more of them have started to lose hope in the movement. Chartism has lost its general appeal. On the other hand, Chartist members are still actively fighting. After their third petition was, yet again, not approved, it came to unrests in Bingley, Yorkshire. Before we got on the train, I heard from Scotland Yard that there are currently talks amongst Chartists of holding an uprising in London. Apparently, yesterday was their first meeting.”

“They cannot be very good if Scotland Yard found out about their plans so soon. And what exactly does this movement have to do with our trip to France?”

“Out of frustration and scorn at the latest developments, a man called Nicodemus Townsend formed a Chartist subgroup. Townsend is the son of a former governess and a factory worker; at thirty-one, he is the oldest of his parents’ children, and from what I have found out, he has always been a very charismatic person. Under Townsend’s leadership, this little group has managed to steal something of utmost importance to the Crown. They want to use it to force the Queen and the Parliament to approve the Chartists’ six propositions.”

Cedric’s eyes widened. “Don’t tell me they were able to steal the Crown Jewels from the Tower of London…”

“I won’t because they weren’t; they have not. They stole something else.”

“And what?”

Cloudia shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

“It seems that whatever Townsend and his goons stole is something so valuable to the Royal family that only handful members of the Royal family itself – the Queen herself, Prince Albert, Queen Adelaide, and some others – and the Prime Minister even know about its existence. It’s one of the most well-kept secrets of the Crown, maybe even the most well-kept one. Not even I, the Queen’s Watchdog, is allowed to know anything specific about it. Thus, Townsend has definitely no idea what exactly he has stolen. He only knows that the object is immensely important to the Queen. He does not know what it is, what it does if it even does something, or why exactly it is so valuable. Townsend only found out the object’s location from a traitor who was already identified and hanged. Said traitor didn’t know what the object is either.

“Townsend is now in possession of this object; the Queen knows this for sure but Townsend does not.”

Cedric frowned. “But if he knew where to find this thing and knows that it is important, why doesn’t he know that he really has it? It doesn’t make much sense to me.”

“The reason why Townsend isn’t sure if he has it or not is that the object is inside a special box,” Cloudia told him. “A box no ordinary person can open. It’s an incredibly elaborate puzzle box only Queen Victoria knows how to open. This box is the secret object’s last defence; it is the last thing to ensure that it cannot fall into the wrong hands.

“Now, Townsend has the box but he has no guarantee that it is, in fact, the right box. It could just as well be a decoy. That the traitor was hanged does not guarantee him the box’s authenticity. After all, the traitor sold out information about this secret’s whereabouts and, thus, committed a crime. In this case, it does not matter whether the box is a replica or not. Also, following the theft and hanging, the Crown is calmly continuing its work. There is no apparent unrest, no panic that could indicate Townsend that he did, in fact, steal the real box. He cannot even break the box to see what is inside because it was constructed to be nearly unbreakable; if he ever managed to break the box, Townsend would, most definitely, destroy its content as well. And you cannot exactly use a broken item for blackmail.”

“So… all Townsend can do is to try finding a way to open the box? To make sure that there’s really something inside?”

“Exactly.”

“But how does he intend to do it? You have said yourself that only the Queen knows how to open it.”

“This does not mean that no one else can open it. It only means that it is very, very difficult for anyone else to solve the box’s puzzle. Someone with a vast knowledge of puzzles and mechanics may be capable of opening the box. Townsend and his followers do not possess this knowledge. They need to find someone who does and persuade him or her to help them if they want to get any further. And as they know that they better should not conduct their search in Great Britain – the risk of getting caught is far too high – they weaselled their way out of the isle and got to the continent.”

Cedric groaned. “They really never make it easy for us, do they? Anyway – why France? Or better: How do you even know that they are in France?”

“I have told you that my grandmother, Genevieve Phantomhive, was French, right?”

“Yes, you have. And?”

“Before my grandmother married my grandfather, her name was Genevieve Hetherington, but that wasn’t her birth name. It was Genevieve Dupont. Her mother, my great-grandmother, remarried after the death of her first husband, Timothé Dupont, and legally changed the surname of her daughter to Hetherington, her second husband’s last name. The Hetherington family is fairly unremarkable – the Duponts, however, are infamous in France. They are basically the French equivalent of the Phantomhives, only independent.”

“You have to be joking,” interjected Cedric. “There are more of you?”

“You couldn’t seriously have thought that the Phantomhives are singular, could you? We live in a big world, Undertaker. There are surely more Watchdogs and Phantomhives. Or, at least, similar positions and families.”

He rubbed his face. “I don’t like where this is going, but please continue, Countess.”

“Undertaker, you have to know that the Duponts are not just active in France. They are also active, though to a lesser extent, all over the European mainland, but not on the British Isles. This is one of the reasons why the Duponts and the Phantomhives were so eager for my grandparents to marry. In the end, it did not turn out as they had wished, but that’s a different story.

“Anyway, I wrote to the Duponts regarding the theft. With their network, they were quickly able to find out that Townsend was seen last in the north of France. And while they do not know where Townsend currently is, they do have an idea where he could go, whom he could force to solve the box’s puzzle for him. Luckily enough, my great-uncle – my grandmother’s older brother – knows a noble family who has a manor house around the area where this ‘Clockmaker’ as he calls him resides. He made them leave for a while so that we can stay there, at Château de Charbonneau, during our time in France.”

“Please don’t continue anymore, Countess. I don’t think you will say anything good anymore.”

“And because they have never met me in person, and I have never met them,” Cloudia continued, ignoring Cedric, “they will come to stay with us there.”

“I knew that you would say this,” Cedric said, sliding down in his seat until he half-laid on it. “And I don’t like it at all.”

She frowned. “But you like my maternal family just fine?”

“I like them because they are normal. What can I expect of French Phantomhives?”

“The same as of every other person you haven’t met before and haven’t heard anything of. I do not know them myself; I also have no idea how they are. It will be a surprise to us all.”

Cedric opened his mouth to say something, but before he could, someone knocked on the cabin’s door. Cloudia gestured at Cedric to sit up properly again before saying “Please enter” and folding her hands in her lap.

The door opened and a short, slightly chubby lady with a friendly face and brown hair appeared in the doorsill. “Good day, my name is…” the snack lady started before her eyes widened at their sight and she exclaimed with joy gracing her face and voice, “Lady Phantomhive! Duke Underwood!” Hastily, she curtsied. “Mylady, Your Grace, it is such a pleasure to meet you again!”

Cedric and Cloudia exchanged surprised gazes before turning back to the lady. “Mrs Wilming!” they said almost synchronically.

Mary Margaret’s eyes glittered. “I feel so honoured that you remember me! I hope you had a nice journey so far?”

“Yes, we had. Thank you for asking,” said Cloudia with a smile. “And it is not that remarkable that we are remembering you, Mrs Wilming; it is more remarkable that you can remember us! It is truly surprising that we didn’t get buried beneath memories of thousands of other passengers, customers.”

She chuckled. “I remember everyone I have ever served. Your Grace, do you want everything from my trolley again?”

Cedric’s eyes shone in delight. “Yes, but I know I cannot. Instead, I will poach a bit. If you may excuse me,” he said and knelt down next to the snack trolley to collect everything he wanted.

“May I inquire where you are heading to this time, Your Ladyship?” Mary Margaret asked Cloudia.

“To Dover, and from there, we will head to a little village in France.”

Her eyes widened. “Oh, I see! Pardon me, Duchess, for addressing you wrongly! My sincerest congratulations, Your Graces!” She curtsied again.

“Duchess?!” exclaimed Cedric and stood up so abruptly and blindly that he hit his head on a part of the trolley. “Ow.”

“No, no, Mrs Wilming, you have misunderstood,” Cloudia was quick to say, waving with her hands. “We did not get married – we are not even intending to. We are going to France with a few others who we will meet in Dover.”

Mary Margaret held her face. “Pardon me, Mylady, for jumping to conclusions!”

“It is fine. It is not the first time that someone has mistaken us for an engaged or married couple; and to my annoyance, I doubt this will be the last time.” Cloudia turned to Cedric who had started to litter his bench with sweets. “Are you done or should Mrs Wilming just leave her trolley here?”

“I was done a few minutes ago, but then, I hit my head and decided to take more to ease my pain.”

“Naturally.” Cloudia took out her purse and paid Mary Margaret. “Here you go, Mrs Wilming. I wish you a good day – and I advise you to hurry to the next compartments before the Duke decides to chase after you and eat all the sweets from your trolley. And the trolley itself.”

Mary Margaret chuckled. “I really should be going. I hope you will enjoy your trip, Lady Phantomhive, Duke Underwood!” With a final wave, she was gone.

“For your information, Countess,” Cedric said while organising his haul, “I would never eat a trolley – unless it’s made of gingerbread, of course.”

“I know.” Cloudia held out her hand, and Cedric handed her a package with bonbons. “They are humbugs,” he said with a grin and sat back down.

She rolled with her eyes, but opened the package nonetheless and put a bonbon in her mouth.

“Before Mary Margaret Wilming interrupted us, I was meaning to ask what Milton thinks of everything,” said Cedric, throwing a few black circular sweets into his mouth. He grimaced and spit them back into the package. “Ugh, it’s liquorice. Who the hell likes liquorice?” He held up the bag and glared at it. “You are called Pontefract cakes. You are supposed to be cakes, not something coming from the pits of hell!”

“Only because you don’t like it, doesn’t mean you should simply spit it back!” Cloudia looked away. “It’s gross.”

“Just like liquorice. It is gross; it deserves a gross end.”

“They aren’t that gross.”

“Please don’t tell me you like liquorice, Countess.”

She turned back to him and raised an eyebrow. “What are you going to do if I say I do?”

“Well, then, I would gather my belongings, say ‘Countess, it was nice to have met you in a weird, nerve-wracking way, but under such circumstances, I cannot keep up this partnership,’ and part ways with you forever.”

“You would leave me over liking liquorice?”

“Of course,” said Cedric, his mien serious, hers baffled – and then, they burst into laughter.

“We went through too much together, Countess, for liquorice to be the end of us,” he said, chuckling.

“Your hygiene may be it though,” Cloudia replied and threw a humbug at him.

He caught it. “Not this again! I’ve washed my trousers! I swear!”

“And your hair?”

“Do you know how long it takes for this much hair” – he grabbed his ponytail and waved around with it – “to dry?”

Cloudia crossed her arms in front of her chest. “My hair is almost as long as yours and I manage just fine.”

“I was in a hurry today.”

“That’s no excuse.”

“I don’t have servants to help me dry it.”

“No excuse either.”

“Grim Reapers are the epitome of death; they are not supposed to smell like flowers and fruits.”

“As I have understood, Grim Reapers are collectors of the dead, not the causation of them.”

“I did wash my hair today.”

She smiled. “I know. And, for your information, I would not even eat liquorice if it was gratinated with gingerbread.”

  I replied to her smile with one of my own; and in silence and joy, we stayed like this for a little while until the conductor knocked against our cabin door and pulled us back into the here and now.

  “Back to my question,” Cedric started to say, awkwardly shoving a humbug to the side in his mouth after the conductor had left again. “What does Milton think of all this? Our trip?”

“What should he think of it?” Cloudia replied while fumbling with the lace on her gloves.

“You have told me that he is coming with us because he is going to bring us to wherever we have to go to catch Townsend and retrieve the important secret item – but the catching and retrieving is Watchdog business, and Milton is an ordinary civilian.” He paused. “Wait, he is an ordinary civilian, right? And not one of your Aristocrats of Evil?”

“Milton? An Aristocrat of Evil? Don’t be ridiculous. He is nothing but a regular civilian,” said Cloudia. “Every now and then, we write to each other. It is a rather tedious affair as Milton is always travelling: All you want to send to him, you have to send to his deputy Sycamore first.

“A while ago, when it had become clear that I would have to go to France, I asked him to do me the favour to help me find the best possible route to get where I needed to go. Of course, all he knows is that I am going to France to visit family.

“I assumed that Milton would simply tell me where to go, which roads and railway companies I have to avoid and which to take, that he would perhaps even ask some of his acquaintances in France to assist me. But, coincidentally, he returned to England the day before he received my letter, and what is even more coincidental, he has business to do in Paris around the same time as we have to be in France to investigate. Kind as he is, Milton offered to guide us to Nanteuil-la-Forêt as it is not very far away from Paris. In return, I have offered him to stay with us at Château de Charbonneau until it’s time for him to go to Paris. Originally, Milton had planned to set out in a few days and, thus, arranged his meeting accordingly. However, he was unable to reschedule it after accepting my favour which means that he has a few ‘spare days’; these he will spend with us in Nanteuil-la-Forêt.”

Cedric chuckled. “Of course, Milton accepted your offer. I don’t think this boy would ever pass up on an opportunity to spend a few days with you somewhere in France. What was the name of the place where we’re going again? Nantoy-le-furry?”

“Nanteuil-la-Forêt.”

“Ah, okay. Do you think that it will be all right for Milton to stay with us? After all, the Duponts sound scary and we need to catch Townsend.”

“It will be fine,” she meant, closing the humbug bag and putting it away. “Milton is easy to handle and will not be a hindrance to us: He greatly values the privacy of others, and he will, most likely, spend the majority of our time there sitting in a secluded corner all by himself, reading or working. The manor will be rather crowded, and Milton cannot stomach crowded places for too long; he will surely seize every chance to vanish to quieter places.”

“I’ve noticed that,” said Cedric, leaning back and crossing his arms in front of his chest. “He is like you in this regard, Countess. You always shudder whenever you have to attend any kind of social gathering. I’ve always thought that you did not particularly like him, but you seem to be quite a match in some aspects – and you are writing letters to each other. For how long are you doing this anyway?”

“For a bit over a year,” Cloudia replied, looking out of the window. “He sent me flowers for my birthday, and I wrote him a letter to thank him for them – and somehow, the correspondence kept on going, albeit only sporadically considering that Milton is always travelling and I have to send all my letters to his deputy first who has to track him down and…” She sighed. “I didn’t even think I would ever hear of him again after the destruction of his villa, considering how well our meeting before that one went…”

Cedric leaned forward. “Huhu, now you are sparking my curiosity! What happened at that meeting?”

“He proposed to me,” she told him, not taking her gaze from the scenery outside.

“He proposed to you? You’ve told me that Milton tried, is trying to marry you despite your ‘engagement,’ but I’ve thought you meant that he said things implying his intention or that he was, in some ways, making advances to you or something like that. I would have never thought that he actually proposed to you! Who proposes to an already ‘engaged’ person?” He paused. “Wait, Milton does know about your betrothal, right?”

“Yes, yes, he does. Of course, he does. I guess he forgot about it at that moment and…” Cloudia sighed again. “It was so sudden.”

“And what was your answer?”

Slowly, she turned to Cedric. She blinked at him. “Obviously, I said ‘no.’”

“Well, you could have said ‘yes.’”

“What in the world makes you even a tiny bit believe that I accepted?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I just thought for a moment ‘What if she missed to tell me that she is not simply fake engaged but really engaged as well? What if she simply forgot?’”

Cloudia shook her head, smiling, and stood up. “We have arrived, Undertaker; come get up before we miss our station.”

  ***

  “So when exactly are we going to meet Milton at the port? In fifteen minutes? Twenty? Half an hour?” asked Cedric when he sat down opposite Cloudia in the carriage.

“Tomorrow.”

“Oh, that’s – wait, did you say tomorrow?”

“Yes, tomorrow. Undertaker, are you becoming old or why are you constantly repeating what I’m saying?”

“I’m not becoming old. I am old. I was born old, was born with an old man’s grey hair – now, tell me: Why are we already in Dover when we are only meeting up with Milton tomorrow? We don’t need that much time to get to the port, right?”

“Of course, not,” said Cloudia, fumbling with the cords of her bonnet. “We are here a day early because I want to see the city before we cross the Channel. Of course, we will come back to Dover when we return, but I doubt that we will have the time to stay here for long then: There’s always more work to do after all.”

Cedric sacked in his seat. “I could have slept longer. I didn’t have to rush that much with my application.”

“Oh, don’t tell me that you don’t want to explore Dover.” Cloudia folded her arms in front of her chest. “After all, you have never been here as well.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. He sighed and smiled at her. “Yes, I haven’t. Yes, I would love to explore the city with you.”

“Wonderful!” Cloudia clapped her hands together and took a little notebook out of her dress pocket.

She flipped it open. “I’ve already planned out everything…”

  ***

  Overly enthusiastic, Cloudia had dragged me from one end of the town to the other. We had only limited time in Dover, and Cloudia had planned our entire stay here dead on time: It had been a whirlwind of an adventure, and even though my bones got tired fairly early, I still kept up – and whined as little as possible. I had let her take me to Dover Castle, to the town’s museum where the air circulation was so bad I nearly fainted, to Dover’s famous fortification, the Western Heights, and so on and so on. I had let all the facts and historical data Cloudia told wash over me: that the town’s name came from the River Dour where we had had a picnic for lunch, that Dover – or Portus Dubris during that time – was one of the most important ports during the Roman era, that in 1580 the, so far, largest recorded earthquake in England and northern France and Flanders occurred in Dover Strait, that Dover had been a garrison town during the Napoleonic Wars…

It had been awfully exhausting, but it had also been wonderful to spend an entire day with Cloudia again; perhaps, if we had seen each other in the past months, I would have just let myself faint in the museum… Nevertheless, it had been a funny day; it was always nice to watch Cloudia while she rambled down her facts and to see her expression when I teased her a bit too much.

  “What are you reading today?” Cedric asked, sitting down next to Cloudia on the bench. Newman and Lisa were standing a bit offside with the luggage and were serenely chatting. The port was extremely busy: People were running around loading and unloading cargo, shouting commands, welcoming arriving relatives and friends. Cedric had watched the workers and the waves crashing against the shore and port, but while watching people was certainly interesting and watching the waves both comforting and terrifying, doing nothing else but watching quickly got boring.

To his surprise, Cloudia immediately looked up. Today she wore a simple dark blue costume and a light blue bonnet covering her braided and pinned-up hair. “It’s still Agnes Grey,” Cloudia told him. “I wasn’t able to continue it yesterday. I’ve only been able to pick it up again this morning.”

“And you are still not finished? You are becoming slow, Countess.”

“I am not. The story itself is good, but the novel was sloppily printed and not proof-read; it’s full of mistakes which makes it annoying to read. I’m going to murder the publisher if Acton Bell’s next novel is just as horrendously treated.” She sighed. “I hope I can finish it soon. I want to reread Dombey and Son so badly.”

“If Agnes Grey is so annoying to read, why don’t you put it away, read Dombey and Son now, and continue it later?” Cedric wanted to know.

“I am a bit afraid that, if I do that, I will make up excuses not to continue Agnes Grey afterwards and never finish it. I’ve already read it, yes, but no matter what, I don’t want to leave a book unfinished. I finish every book I read even if it is absolutely awful. After all, sometimes a book’s beginning may be awful but the rest is not. I want to judge a novel by its entirety and not just by a few pages.”

Cedric straightened up and looked around. “Uh, when do you think Milton is coming?”

“It’s really amusing how fixated on Milton you are,” she said. “Did you grow to like him so much after talking to him twice?”

“Well, I do think he’s nice, but I am asking about him because he’s supposed to escort us to France after all.”

She turned her gaze back to the book in her lap. “I think he’s coming after the others have arrived.”

Cedric stared at her. “What others? You didn’t tell me that more would come!”

“You didn’t ask.”

“You still could have told me! Who are the others? Do I know them?”

“Yes, you do.”

A sudden wave of dread washed over him. “Don’t tell me Oscar is coming.”

Cloudia raised an eyebrow. “Oscar is rather well known and officially dead. I couldn’t possibly ask Milton to transport him. And now, be quiet and wait – I want to read.”

“But it doesn’t take that long to give me any names – and now, you’re back in your reading world.” Cedric leaned back and sighed. “I will go to Miss Greene and Alfred for a while. I don’t know if you’re listening, but I am saying this anyway because I don’t want you to wonder later on where I went – and because I want to say ‘Well, but I’ve told you!’ if you still do. I’ll see you later, Countess,” he said and stood up. Lisa’s expression darkened the instant, Cedric stepped to her and Newman.

“Did Lady Cloudia grow tired of you, and now you need someone else to annoy?”

“It’s always a pleasure to see you, Miss Greene.” Cedric turned to Newman. “She always hits the mark; I came to annoy you for a bit. I hope you do not mind?”

“Your presence certainly does not bring annoyance to anyone, Your Grace,” said Newman and slightly bowed his head.

“You are always too nice, my friend.”

Lisa crossed her arms. “It’s Al’s best and worst trait. Now, how does it come that you are still so energetic after Lady Cloudia dragged you through every single street of Dover?”

“Right after my head touched my pillow, I fell asleep like a stone and didn’t wake up until breakfast time. It was an efficient and much-needed recharge. What were you two doing yesterday?”

“We went to the hotel to check in and leave our luggage there. Then, we went to the market to buy things for the picnic.”

“And afterwards?”

“Afterwards, someone” – Lisa linked arms with Newman whose cheeks rosed – “wanted to go to the museum and visit some local bookstores. We also went to a lovely little café.”

“That sounds relaxing.”

“It was.”

Newman nodded. “The tea was exquisite. How were the Western Heights?”

“A bit terrifying. We could not get inside, much to the Countess’ chagrin; I did not really want to go inside anyway. While we were watching it from afar, I always had the feeling that we would be shot down any minute…” replied Cedric. “I would not recommend go–” He stopped talking when, from the corner of his eye, he saw a young man approaching Cloudia. Cedric could not see his face, but as the man had blond hair and Cloudia looked up from Agnes Grey when he stepped in front of her and even greeted him with a smile, he guessed that this must be Milton.

“Oh, look, Milton has finally arrived!” he said and pointed to them. “Excuse me for a moment.” With a few long strides, Cedric walked up to Cloudia and Milton. “It was about time, Mil…” he began to say before he the rest of his sentence was nipped in the bud when he finally got to look at the young man’s face. “Kamden?”

With a nervous smile on his face, Kamden Sainteclare waved to him. “Hello, Your Grace.”

“I am certain that the last time I saw you, you had black hair. I thought you were Milton!”

Timidly, Kamden tugged at a strand of his hair. “Do-does it look that bad? Because Cloudie and I look so much alike, I thought it would be better to change my appearance a bit so that Baron Salisbury would not be confused.”

“You didn’t have to; rather than confused, I think he would have been ecstatic for there to be basically two Countesses,” said Cedric, and Kamden looked at him, puzzled.

“Ignore him, Kam,” Cloudia interfered. “You don’t need to understand his nonsense.”

“I see?”

“Anyway,” Cedric said. “Kamden is coming with us to France? Why?”

“Because, in my affliction, I’ve forgotten his birthday cake this year and subsequently promised him that I would go on a trip with him. I thought we would go to Wales to visit his grandmother, but Kamden was a bit worried when he learned I was going to France for Watchdog business reasons and promptly redeemed his wayfare coupon to accompany me.”

Kamden cleared his throat. “Furthermore, Sir Barrington insisted that I come in his stead; he is currently tied up with business matters and unable to accompany us. He specifically requested my presence because my neighbour, Dr Alan, is a physician. He was friends with my parents and treated them when they got ill. After they died, he took me under his wing and taught me a few things.”

“A few things? Kam, don’t downplay your abilities. He’s very good,” said Cloudia to Cedric, and Kamden turned a bit red.

“Uh, eh, yes, aaaa-anyway, Your Grace,” Kamden said. “As I will go to France as Sir Barrington’s ward, you cannot call me ‘Kamden Sainteclare’ when Baron Salisbury is nearby. It is ‘Emyr Bonham.’”

“‘Emyr Bonham’?”

“That’s my birth name,” whispered Kamden. “Kamden Emyr Llywelyn-Bonham. ‘Sainteclare’ is the surname of my adoptive parents. The general public knows that Sir Barrington has a ward named ‘Emyr Bonham.’ It’s easier than ‘Kamden Emyr Llywelyn-Bonham’ and does not lead back to my occupation and store as ‘Kamden Sainteclare’ does.”

“I see. Your full name is certainly a mouthful.”

Kamden scratched his head. “Yes, I know…”

“There are royals and nobles with worse names,” said Cloudia, putting away her book and standing up. “Prince Albert’s full name, full example, is Prince Francis Albert Augustus Charles Emmanuel of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha.”

“I wonder if the Queen tripped over his name while speaking her wedding vows,” Cedric said.

“As if Queen Victoria would ever trip over her beloved husband’s name.”

“For a moment, I forgot how infatuated she is with him. I suppose she even says his full name to herself every now and then when she thinks of him. ‘Albert Francis something-something…’ ‘My dearest Tongue Twister man!’”

“It’s Francis Albert August Charles Emmanuel.”

“They could have just called him ‘Faace.’ ‘Dear, you have something on your faace,’” said Cedric, and Cloudia chuckled.

“What miserable joke did he make this time, Lady Cloudia?” Lisa asked when she joined them while Newman stayed with the luggage.

“A ridiculously miserable one.”

Theatrically offended, Cedric looked at Cloudia. “Still you dared to laugh!”

Next to them, Kamden addressed Lisa and bowed briefly. “Right before I left for the train station, your order arrived.” He took out a parcel from the inside of his jacket and handed it to Lisa.

“Thank you, Mr Kamden,” she replied, taking the package from him.

“You’re welcome, and it is ‘Mr Emyr’ for now, Miss Lisa.”

“I understand.”

Cedric stared at them before turning to Cloudia. “Did you see what I saw? Miss Greene was friendly and did not scowl at Kamden! The only persons I’ve never seen her scowling at are you and Alfred.”

“She did scowl and glare at him in the beginning,” Cloudia told him. “Then, Lisa started to get along astonishingly well with Kamden. They have some common interests.”

“I still think it’s strange. Is the world ending?”

She shrugged.

“As Kamden’s here now… When do you think Milton is going to come, Countess?”

Cloudia took out her pocket watch and frowned. “How odd. We were supposed to meet ten minutes ago. He is usually very punctual. I hope nothing happened?”

“Ten minutes is nothing to worry about. Perhaps the traffic is heavy? Perhaps he is walking towards us at this very moment.” Cedric craned his head and gazed around – and spotted Milton standing a few metres away from them and looking terribly lost. “Oh, hello, Milton!” Cedric waved at him. “We have been waiting for you.”

With a shy smile on his face, Milton waved back and joined them. “Hello, Kristopher. I am sorry to have kept you all waiting.”

“Milton!” said Cloudia. “I’m glad that you are finally here.”

As soon as Milton saw her, he started to beam.

  How in the world had Cloudia not noticed on her own that he was in love with her?

  He bowed to her. “Lady Cloudia, I wish you a good day. My sincerest apologies for my tardiness.”

Cedric frowned. “Wait a minute: How long were you standing there, Milton?”

Milton hesitated. “About eleven minutes.”

“If you were here on time, why did you not come to us?”

“I saw you talking and did not mean to interrupt you,” he said, looking down to his feet.

“It would have been fine; it is fine, Milton,” Cloudia assured him. “Let us forget this now. Milton, may I introduce you to Sir Barrington Weaselton’s ward, Mr Emyr Bonham?”

Kamden lowered his head. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Baron Salisbury.”

“Likewise,” Milton replied and extended his hand. “And, please, it’s just ‘Milton’ if you do not mind.”

“Then, simply Emyr will be fine,” Kamden said and shook his hand.

“Of course.” Milton turned to Lisa next and bowed to her. “Miss Greene, I hope you had a wonderful day and that you will enjoy the seafaring.”

Scowling, she briefly curtsied. “Thank you, Baron, and I hope I do.”

With a smile on his face, Milton straightened up again and turned to Cloudia. “Is that everyone, Mylady?”

“Not quite. Newman, can you come?” She waved her butler to her.

“Oh, Mr Newman is coming as...” Milton began to say and turned around, but his sentence was left unfinished when he saw Newman.

  Newman was quite tall and broad-shouldered, and when I had met him for the first time, I had been surprised as well. However, I was I and Milton was a nobleman, and wasn’t it impolite to stare at other people?

  “Milton, as far as I know, you have never met my butler, right?” continued Cloudia. Apparently, she had not noticed Milton’s strange behaviour. “This is Alfred Newman. Newman, this is Baron Milton Salisbury.”

“It is an immense honour to finally be acquainted with you, Baron,” said Newman and bowed. When he stood up straight again, Milton was still staring at him with wide eyes. Cedric frowned.

“Master Milton,” Cedric heard a voice saying behind them, and Milton slightly flinched at the address. At the same time as Cedric craned his head to see who had spoken – it was Milton’s elderly butler, Abraham Wentworth, who had appeared behind them –, Milton cleared his throat and held his hand out to Newman.

“I am terribly sorry, Mr Newman,” he said while he shook hands with Newman. “I do not know what came over me.”

“It is all right.”

“I hope I did not make you uncomfortable, Mr Newman.”

“You did not, Baron.”

Milton sighed in relief. “This is good to hear, and please just call me Milton. I do not like it when anyone is being too formal with me.” He paused. “Of course, I do not want to dictate you how you have to address me, Mr Newman… It is only an offer. If you prefer to call me ‘Baron,’ it is fine.”

Newman lowered his head. “Of course. I will think over it.”

Milton smiled at him and turned to Cloudia. “Mylady, I see you holding a book, however, I cannot see its title. May I inquire what you are reading?” he softly asked.

She grinned at him. “‘Shortly after my arrival, she commissioned her maid to conduct me to my room and see that I had everything I wanted; it was a small, unpretending, but sufficiently comfortable apartment.’”

  Bewildered, I watched their exchange; and so did Kamden, and to a lesser extent, Alfred. Interestingly, Miss Greene witnessed it with an expression of absolute boredom on her face as if she had watched it a thousand times before.

  “Agnes Grey,” Milton said with a smile on his face. “I am sure that you have already read it.”

“I have.”

“So, you are rereading it in consideration of Acton Bell’s second publication in a few weeks.”

“Exactly. Correct as always. It’s your turn now.”

“‘Far into the night she sat alone, by the sinking blaze, in dark and threatening beauty, watching the murky shadows looming on the wall, as if her thoughts were tangible, and cast them there.’”

“Dombey and Son!” she exclaimed.

His gaze softened. “Correct as always.”

“It is a bit unfair. I own the hardcover, have it in my suitcase; still, I have not been able to read it. I wanted to finish rereading Agnes Grey first.”

“You are almost at the end; I think you will finish it soon despite the spelling errors.”

“I am sorry that I have to interrupt this silly game you are playing, but I wanted to announce my arrival – and aren’t we supposed to set sails in fifteen minutes?”

  Neither Barrington or Oscar – thank God – were coming, and I thought the apparent greatest stressful aspect was the fact that Cloudia’s extended family was awaiting us in Nanteuil-la-Forêt.

It seemed that I had been wrong.

  “Why are we still standing here, then?” continued Cecelia Williams, arms akimbo. As always, she wore a black dress and a smirk on her face.

“Good day, Baron Salisbury, I believe we never had the pleasure of meeting?” She held out her gloved hand. “Marchioness Cecelia Williams. I am thrilled to finally make your acquaintance, Baron.”

The glow Milton had acquired while speaking to Cloudia slipped away; he straightened and without hesitation or a hint of nervousness, Milton took Cecelia’s hand and leaned forward to press his lips to it. “Likewise, Marchioness. I have heard so often from you; so often we have been at the same gatherings – still, our paths never crossed until now,” he said. Cedric saw Wentworth intently watching his master behind him.

“Yes. Such a pity. At least, it made our meeting delightfully more satisfying,” said Cecelia. “I sincerely hope that I did not catch you off-guard, Baron. I specifically asked Cloudia to keep my presence in her travel group a secret; if you want to blame anyone, don’t blame her but me.”

“I will not blame anyone. There is enough space on the Daphne.”

“That’s good to hear. Now, let’s board the good lady. Where is she docked?”

“A few metres down the pier. My butler Bram will guide you there.” Milton turned to Wentworth who lowered his head in understanding. “If you may follow me, Marchioness Williams?” he said and led Cecelia to the ship.

“I am sorry,” Cloudia said as soon as Cecelia was gone.

“You do not have to apologise, Lady Cloudia,” Milton softly replied. “It was certainly a surprise, but nothing for what you have to apologise. Of course, you need to take a chaperone with you; it is my fault for not thinking of this beforehand. And Lady Cecelia is right: It is time that we go aboard the Daphne. It is not the ship I normally take, but still perfectly fine and I hope that her accommodations will be after your taste.”

“I am sure they are fine,” she said, and he smiled at her.

“If the Daphne is not your usual ship, why are we taking her then? Is there a reason for it?” Cedric asked while Milton led the rest of them to the ship.

“My usual ship had to be repaired and is, thus, currently unusable. Maybe that’s a sign that I am spending a bit too much time overseas?” He smiled sheepishly. “If you may excuse me?” Milton said before he walked a bit faster to be ahead of them.

Cedric leaned to Cloudia. “What were you and Milton doing earlier?”

“Playing a little game,” she told him. “We have made it a habit to ask each other about the last sentence we have read in the book we are currently reading. Then, we guess to which book the quote belongs. It’s quite silly, and we haven’t done it in quite a while. I was a bit surprised when he brought it up again.” She bit her lip.

Cedric opened his mouth to say something when they arrived at the dock, the ship hovering right in front of them in the water. Her exterior surface had been lacquered blue-green like the sea while the ship’s funnels and the railing were white; Daphne was written in gold cursive on one side. Cloudia stopped when they were almost at the stairs leading up to the deck. Kamden, Lisa, and Newman climbed the stairs before them; all of them glanced into their direction – and Lisa additionally glared at Cedric – when they passed by but nobody said anything.

“Is everything all right?” Cedric asked Cloudia who was looking at the Channel with wide, disbelieving eyes.

“It will sound pathetic but I have always dreamed of leaving the isle,” she said after a while, breathing in the salty air and closing her eyes for a moment. “And now, here I am – about to go aboard a ship and turning this little silly dream of mine into reality.” Cloudia turned towards him with a brilliant smile on her lips. “Don’t you dare laugh.”

“I would never, Countess,” he said.

“Liar. You always laugh.” She offered him her arm. “And now, my little idiot, let’s finally go aboard. We let everyone wait long enough.”

Returning her smile, Cedric linked arms with her, and together, they walked up the stairs to the Daphne.

  ***

  Across the English Channel – June 1848

  Cloudia’s words had reminded me that, once, I had dreamed of something similar. For a very brief time in my long life, I had also wished to get away; not exactly across the sea, just somewhere where nobody knew me and I knew nobody and nothing. It had been such a momentary wish; a short-lived ember of a dream that had gone out before it had even sparked. If it had not been for Cloudia, I would have never remembered it; like so much else, it would have stayed forever buried in the past.

But simply remembering this old wish had not brought it back. The fire had not been rekindled; it was still cold ash in the chimney when we set sail and my wish, in some way, was finally fulfilled.

I guessed that I had never wished for this as much as I had believed I did. Or things had changed too much for it to even matter anymore. Or both.

 One by one, Wentworth guided us to our rooms. First, Cloudia – Cecelia had already been shown to hers –, then Kamden, Alfred and Miss Greene, and now me. Milton had said that we would only be three hours at sea, but he had still prepared cabins in the midship area if we wanted to take a nap, be to ourselves, or needed a place to fight potential seasickness.

  “This is your room, Your Grace. I hope everything is to your liking,” Wentworth said when he opened a red-framed door and let Cedric inside.

The cabin was quite unlike anything Cedric associated with Milton: heavy, intricately engraved furniture, seating and curtains of red velvet, tapestries ornamented with little, glittering seashells which had been painted red. Hadn’t Cloudia said that Milton liked everything to be simpler? But from bow to stern, everything here was decorated and engraved and shining with grace. It had made Cedric frown when he had stepped aboard, when he had walked through the corridors; it made him frown now. Milton had said that this wasn’t his usual ship, though; it made sense that nothing seemed like “Milton” – but whom else did it seem like? Who had designed the ship’s interior?

Cedric briefly dwelled on this question before he pushed it away and fell into one of the comfortable armchairs. “It is. Thank you, Wentworth.”

The elderly butler bowed. “This is good to hear, Your Grace. If you may excuse me, I am now taking my leave,” he said and went away.

For a few minutes, Cedric sat there, staring at a particularly pretty piece of wall, before he got up and walked back to the deck. In the corridor, however, he stumbled over Cecelia.

“Oh, hello. What a surprise that you are here too,” Cedric said when he saw her.

“This was my intention,” she responded. “A memorable entrance! Not as elegant as I had desired as you were clumsily huddled together and everyone around us was either shouting or a seagull. At least, it did what it should.”

“And what should it do?” he asked, confused.

A smile cut through Cecelia’s pretty face. “Oh, my dear Not-Kristopher,” she said, stepping closer to him and lowering her voice. “I will tell you soon when we can talk more freely and his shadow is not lurking around us.” With a final smile, she turned on her heels and hurried away.

Still frowning at her words, Cedric resumed his walk to the deck. Couldn’t Cloudia have normal associates?

When he arrived on deck, he looked around. He had hoped to find Cloudia or perhaps Kamden, but the only one here was Milton who leant against the white railing and let small stones fall into the water.

“What are you doing?” Cedric asked when he approached him.

“Oh, hello, Kristopher!” Milton greeted him. “I’m only standing here, watching the waves.”

“I saw you throwing stones into the water.”

“Oh, you meant that.” He rubbed his neck and looked out to the Channel. “It’s a little something my grandmother and father used to do for my mother whenever they crossed the Channel. As they are dead, I am upholding this little tradition.” He directed his gaze downwards. “I know it’s a bit silly.”

Cedric leaned against the railing. “Every family has their traditions, and some are weirder than others. Do you know that Lady Cloudia’s family always sings a very cheesy song on someone’s birthday? It is something dear to them; it doesn’t matter if I think it’s ridiculous.”

Milton smiled. “You are very kind, Kristopher,” he said and took out another stone from his pocket.

“How often do you have to do this?” Cedric wanted to know.

“I have to do it seven times; I have already thrown six stones.” Milton held the stone over the railing. “This is the last time.”

He let it fall and closed his eyes.

  The other times I had seen Milton, he had always been nervous, a bit jumpy. In this very moment, with the wind tousling his fair hair, he seemed serene, relaxed.

  “Have you ever travelled by ship, Kristopher?” Milton suddenly asked, startling Cedric out of his thoughts.

“No, I have not.”

“I hope you will like it.” He smiled at him. It was a clear sunny day and in the bright light, Milton’s eyes looked greener than usual.

“I hope so too.” Cedric yawned.

“Are you tired?”

“I was forced to explore the entire City of Dover yesterday. I slept wonderfully afterwards, but I guess, I’m still exhausted.” Cedric rubbed his eyes and when he put his hands down again, he saw Milton staring at him, his eyes wide with worry.

“Kristopher, you look pale. Are you feeling dizzy?”

“I’m not dizzy; I’m simply tired. I’m fine.” Cedric stepped away from the railing. Immediately, nausea washed over him. He pressed a hand against his mouth.

“Come, I bring you to your cabin,” said Milton, steadying him and gently guiding him to his room. He helped him lie down on his bed.

“How are you feeling?”

“Awful,” Cedric groaned.

“I hope it will get better soon.” Milton clutched his hands together, glancing every now and then towards the open cabin door. “This area of the ship is steadier than others, and lying down helps too but… Lady Cloudia mentioned that Mr Bonham is a doctor’s apprentice. Shall I fetch him or will you be fine?”

“There’s no need to bother him. It will be fine. I will lie here and try not to die.”

“I’m sorry. I should have chosen a slower ship…”

Cedric wanted to shake his head, but as he feared that he might vomit if he did so, he just wiggled with his finger. “No, it’s all right. I would have ended up like that no matter the speed, I guess.”

Milton bit his lip.

“It’s fine, Milton. You don’t have to stay here.”

“But…”

Cedric cringed. Having a headache and feeling dizzy at once was really crazy. “I don’t want you to stay here and watch me being miserable. I will be fine. You should go and see after the others.”

Slowly, Milton nodded and walked to the door, but before he left, he turned back to Cedric. “Are you absolutely sure…?”

“Yes.”

Milton still hovered a few moments between the cabin and the corridor before he finally left and closed the door behind him.

  This was not the story of how we went to France and caught Townsend – it was the story of how I died. Again. And I did not like it at all.

  “I’ve heard from a hysterical Milton that you are seasick,” Cloudia said, peaking into the cabin. “I didn’t even know you could get sick.”

“I have to eat and sleep; I can get hurt and die – of course, I can get ill.”

She stepped inside and closed the door behind her. “It didn’t surprise me that you – as the collective ‘you’ of Grim Reapers – can get sick. I meant the singular ‘you’ as in ‘you, my very own moron Reaper.’” Cloudia sat down on a chair. “From all I have heard, being a Grim Reaper only makes you very long living, gives you a strange eye colour and even stranger powers. Apart from this, you are ‘normal.’ Anyway, I was surprised to see you like this because you have not got sick before. This is not the same as a cold or a fever but you were always perfectly healthy in the one and a half years I have known you.”

“I have always been a very healthy person; I rarely fall ill.” Cedric rubbed his temples. “But I have never been on a ship before. And, anyway, I finally start to understand how you must feel all the time, Countess.”

“You can only hope that you don’t pass out.” She took her book out of her dress pocket and thumbed to the page where she had stopped.

“You came here to read?”

“I am here to watch over you in case you have to empty your stomach contents over the lovely furniture. Who designed the ship’s interior, I wonder? It surely wasn’t Milton; it feels more like it was a woman. Perhaps his mother? His aunt?” Cloudia shrugged. “Also, you should not talk that much and rest; and when I cannot talk to you, I thought I could read. However, I can read to you if you want.”

“Yes, that would be nice.”

Cedric watched her eyes hushing over the lines to find the last one she had read; she always looked so beautiful when she was reading, so calm and happy in her own little world. He fixed his gaze to the ceiling.

“‘When I descended thence – having divested myself of all travelling encumbrances, and arranged my toilet with due consideration for…’”

  ***

  Dunkirk, Nord, France – June 1848

  At about 18 o’clock, we arrived in Dunkirk. I had thought that we would continue our journey right away, but apparently, our next station was Lille – and as it was hours away by carriage and we were rather exhausted from the seafaring, Milton had scheduled our trip to Lille for tomorrow and reserved some rooms in a lovely hotel. I could not have been more thankful for his gracious planning. If Cloudia had planned everything, she would have let me rest for an hour or two before we headed to Lille in the dead of night.

While the others were away to eat dinner – apparently, the town was known for some strange-sounding chicken dish – I stayed in my hotel room and rested. The others except for Milton, Wentworth, and Alfred had eventually become seasick to different degrees, but it had caught me the worst and I still needed time to fully recover from it.

  “We have plenty of time,” Cloudia said to him in the breakfast room the next day. “There is really no need to wolf down everything.”

“I have not eaten anything since lunch yesterday. I am starving,” Cedric replied, shovelling more bread into his mouth.

“People are looking.”

“Le’ ’em wa’ch if ’ey enjoy i’ so mu’,” Cedric replied, gazing at some of the spectators who quickly looked away in disgust.

Cloudia held her head. “Why are you like this?”

He was about to reply to her when Kamden joined them at their table. Cedric had only met Kamden once before and even now he knew that he, most likely, would never get used to seeing him with blond hair. It was already odd enough that Kamden looked so much like Cloudia; with the blond hair, it was even more unsettling.

“Good morning, Cloudie, Your Grace,” said Kamden and sat down.

“Good morning, Kam,” Cloudia said while Cedric waved his knife in greeting. “And there’s no need to call this hoggish ferret ‘Your Grace.’ Just call him by his first name; it will be fine.”

“Uh.” Unsure, Kamden turned to Cedric who nodded. “It’s all right.”

Kamden sighed in relief.

“Kam, if you want to eat anything at all before we head to Lille, I advise you to be fast.” Cloudia glared at Cedric. “Someone is trying to eat the entire food supply of Dunkirk after all.”

Cedric stopped in the movement of spreading jam on his thirtieth slice of bread while still chewing on his twenty-ninth. “Who do you mean?”

“It is incredible that the servant who has to make sure that the bread baskets are never empty still hasn’t suffered a nervous breakdown. He deserves a pay rise.”

“Is it always like this… Is Hi… Is Kristopher always so hungry?” asked Kamden, taking a slice of bread and some cheese.

“He says it’s because he hasn’t eaten anything since before we boarded the Daphne. In fact, however, he is always like this.”

“I see?”

Cloudia looked around the crowded breakfast room. “Say, Kam, have you seen Cecelia?”

“I’ve briefly seen her on my way down. It seemed like she was also going downstairs… I suppose she will join us soon?”

“And Milton?”

He shook his head. “I have not seen him, but Miss Lisa has. She said he got up early and went somewhere with Wentworth. I assume they went to fetch the carriages and drivers?”

Cloudia nodded and sipped on her tea. They ate in silence for some time until Cecelia sat down at their table. Her brown eyes shone with mischief when she said, “Good morning, my friends and semi-allies, have you heard the latest news?”

Cedric swallowed down the piece of waffle he had been eating. “What in the world did you dig up again?” he asked but she ignored him.

“It should arrive in a second,” Cecelia said with a conspiratorial smirk. Indeed, only a moment later, Milton appeared at their table still dressed in a light coat. Restlessly, he turned the matching hat in his hands as he bowed to them, and when he straightened up again, Cedric saw that Milton’s face was flushed with what seemed to be embarrassment.

  “… and his shadow is not lurking around us,” Cecelia’s words suddenly rang in my mind when I saw Wentworth dutifully standing behind his master, his light blue eyes not directed at Milton but at us. She couldn’t have possibly meant this old man, right?

  “Good morning,” Milton greeted them. “I am sorry that I have to disturb your breakfast with such unpleasant news but I wanted to inform you immediately: Due to unfortunate circumstances, we cannot go to Lille today. Only now, I have learned that the drivers and the carriages are unavailable today, and I do not know when they will be ready again. I have started to ask around to find replacements – however, I could not find suitable ones so far. I will try to get everything ready as soon as possible; at the latest, we will have to wait until tomorrow. I am so sorry.”

“It is a bit troublesome, but it is fine, Milton. It’s not your fault,” Cloudia said. “Don’t you want to sit down and eat with us first? It seems that it will be a long day.”

Milton’s gaze softened and he stopped twirling the hat in his hands. Instead, he dug his fingers in it. “Thank you, but I have already eaten. I should better get to work again. I hope that, in the meantime, you will enjoy your stay in Dunkirk,” he said with a smile and left as quickly as he came, Wentworth right behind him.

“In all the time I have known Milton,” Cloudia began after a minute, “I have never seen him like that, have never seen something like that happening. Milton is the epitome of ‘organised.’ It’s almost scary.”

Cecelia nodded. “It is definitely a first for him, but nothing surprising. I suppose our dear Baron got a bit overwhelmed. His company expanded only recently after all.”

“Maybe I should not have asked for his assistance after all.”

“Don’t blame yourself, Cloudia. It does not suit you. It is his fault for doing you this favour when he knows that he is busy.” Cecelia stood up and winked at them. “I may re-join you for dinner or when a miracle happens and our Baron manages to find new, passable vehicles in the next few hours,” she said, whirled around, and walked away.

“I have a question, Countess,” said Cedric when Cecelia was gone. “Was she always your chaperone?”

Cloudia raised her cup to her lips. “Ever since we met.”

“This explains a lot. Where did you even find her? It must have been a different circle of hell than the one where you found Oscar.”

“I didn’t. She found me.” She put down her cup. “One day when I was twelve, Cecelia managed to get an invitation to a party hosted by Aunt Joanna. I was also there, but at a separate party for the ‘little ladies,’ the young daughters and granddaughters of Aunt Joanna’s guests. I still don’t know how Cecelia did it but the instant I left the party to quickly refresh myself, she appeared at my side and whispered to me ‘Countess Phantomhive, as a newly created Watchdog, I suppose you are currently in search of Aristocrats of Evil?’”

Kamden choked on his tea, and Cloudia leaned him a bit forward and patted his back.

Cedric stared at her. “Cecelia employed herself?”

“Though it sounds crazy, that’s exactly what happened. You cannot imagine how shocked I was – or how shocked Barrington was when I told him about it. I was not even the Watchdog for a month and someone already found out about it.” Cloudia shook her head. “Are you fine?” she asked Kamden, and when he nodded, she turned back to Cedric. “At least, it was only Cecelia and people did not start to come to me and whisper ‘You are the Queen’s Watchdog, aren’t you?’ into my ear every single week. It would have been disastrous; I would have been fired if this had happened. I would have gone down in secret history as the Watchdog with the shortest tenure. Cecelia has been useful ever since and I am glad to have female company separate from my cousins, but the first days after she approached me were awful. If Oscar had been one of my Aristocrats of Evil at that time, he would have certainly killed her.”

Cedric put his hand over the skull pendant necklace. If he had killed her for this, would he have been your Evil Nobleman at that time… What exactly have you told him about how we met?

One January night, a drunken idiot happened to stumble over me killing Ronan Parrish. I decided not to kill but keep him instead.

I want to thank you, but then, this sounds like you have adopted a stray kitten.

Cloudia shrugged. You don’t have any objections regarding the “drunken idiot” part?

“Does any of you have an idea what we could do today?” she abruptly asked. “As this delay came so suddenly, I did not prepare anything. Suggestions?”

  ***

  The longer Cedric was in Dunkirk, the more dread he felt.

After breakfast, he, Kamden, Newman, and Lisa had gathered in Cloudia’s room to make a plan for the day. As nobody could foresee whether or not Milton managed to fix the carriage issue today, they had settled on a quite casual plan: Rather than allowing Cloudia to drag them to every single museum, to every monument, they had decided to take a thorough walk through Dunkirk sprinkled with many pauses in random restaurants or cafés – and to pay a visit to the Musée des Beaux-Arts to appease Cloudia.

However, it was not because of the city why Cedric felt dread tugging at him; it was rather that while they had walked through it, walked along the beach and into all kinds of shops that Cedric had realised something he had completely blocked out when he had learned of their trip and tried to get his application for leave approved – and this exact thing was the source of the dread. While everyone else seemed to thoroughly enjoy their stay in Dunkirk, all Cedric could think of was this one thing he had forgotten – and how mad Cloudia would be when she found out.

“Did you know that almost exactly fifty-six years ago, the astronomers Jean Baptiste Joseph Delambre and Pierre Méchain used this belfry as one of their reference points to measure the meridian arc distance from Dunkirk to Barcelona?” Cloudia told him when they looked from the belfry’s observation platform down to the Place Jean-Bart, Jean Bart’s statue depicting him in privateer garment and holding up his sabre in its centre. As it was a clear day, they could even see the port and the North Sea if they looked farther. From up here, the view was breathtaking, but even now, Cedric could not focus on it; his mind kept and kept slipping back to thinking about that one forgotten thing…

“The belfry used to be the western tower of the St Éloi Church.” Cloudia pointed across the street to a Gothic church built with pale stones. “But in the last century, the belfry and the church’s main building were separated…”

Cedric could barely focus on what Cloudia was talking about.

“I’ve read that the belfry has a total of fifty bells and they chime every fifteen minutes. How loud do you think they will be?” asked Cloudia, turning to look at him.

  All I had to say was “I guess fifty bells must be very loud.”

  “I don’t speak a word French,” blurted it out of Cedric.

Cloudia blinked at him. “Frankly, I am quite happy that I have no insight into your thought process. Why are you telling me this completely irrelevant piece of information?”

“Wait… you are not mad because I did not tell you about this before?”

“Why should I? It was obvious. When we met, you told me that they taught you ‘foreign languages,’ but knowing you, I have never believed that you paid much attention in those classes. Or if you actually had, that you would even remember them considering that a hundred years may have passed since then and that you, in your profession and every-day life, have no opportunities to practice your language skills. Furthermore, you did not catch our destination’s name – Nanteuil-la-Forêt – when I first told you it and were severely confused what a coq à la bière was supposed to be even though it has a very telling name.”

“Actually, I took German and Italian and am, in fact, still rather proficient in them,” Cedric told her.

Cloudia raised an eyebrow.

“Bei meinem Namen Cedric Kristopher Rossdale schwöre ich dir, verehrteste Gräfin, dass ich absolut imstande bin, einen grammatisch korrekten deutschen Satz zu bilden und diesen nahezu perfekt auszusprechen.”

“Impressive,” she said, and a grin appeared on his lips.

“I guess we both have our secret language proficiencies, Miss I-Lied-About-My-Welsh-Skills.”

“I have never said that I do not speak Welsh; thus, I did not lie. All I did was to repeat your terrible pronunciation and ask you what in the world you could possibly mean with it.”

She looked at him, and he looked at her – eyes slightly narrowed, manner serious.

“You always have to have the last word, haven’t you?” said Cedric.

Cloudia smiled at him and turned back to the opening to look outside. “For your information, you do not need to know French. Kam, Newman, Cecelia, Milton, I, and perhaps even Wentworth know it, and the Duponts speak English.”

“That’s a relief. I’ve thought you would…”

“Of course, I insist that you still learn it though.”

Cedric slouched his shoulders. “That’s exactly what I’ve thought you would say.” He leaned against the wall, gazing outside. “Speaking of the Duponts – will they help us in our search for Townsend, his men, and the box?”

She shook her head. “They are only showing us the way to the ‘Clockmaker’ because I am part of the family; otherwise, they have no interest in mingling with foreign affairs. They may help us if there is a sudden emergency though.”

“I am not saying this because I don’t want your relatives’ help, but I hope that no such emergency occurs. I have the feeling that this trip will be incredibly straining even without something like that.”

  ***

  In the early hours of the 15th of June, we resumed our travel, and without further delay, we headed straight to Lille.

We had been allocated to three carriages: Cloudia and Cecelia in one, Kamden, Milton, and I in another, and Alfred, Miss Greene, and Wentworth in the last. Only then had I noticed that Cecelia had not brought any maid of her own. Did she think Miss Greene was enough for both her and Cloudia? Or did she expect that a maid would be provided to her at the manor?

 I had thought that we needed carriages to get to the next train station; I learned, however, that there was, in fact, no railway between Dunkirk and Lille and this was the reason why we had to resort to carriages.

This meant that it would take eight to nine hours for us to arrive in Lille. We would only take a few short pauses to feed and briefly rest the horses; otherwise, we would be constantly on the road. I wished I had Cloudia to keep me company, but I did not know if I was able to survive nine hours of being stuck with Cecelia in a carriage. Kamden and Milton were fine enough, and I engaged them in all sorts of conversational topics – at least, I did so for the first thirty minutes of our drive; then, I fell asleep.

It must have been the early hour and, or the terrifying prospect of driving in a carriage for more than a third of a day, but in one moment I told Milton about our visit to the Dunkirk belfry and in the next, I fell into the rabbit hole to the Land of Sleep.

The next thing I remembered was waking up stiff and without orientation in the carriage. Light was coming through the curtains, and on the bench opposite mine, Milton and Kamden were quietly conversing. With a groan, I sat up – I had laid down as best as I could on the bench – and stretched myself as much as I could in this small space.

  “Oh, you’re awake,” said Milton when Cedric sat up. “Did you sleep well?”

“As well as you can in a carriage.” Cedric cracked his neck. “Are we finally there? How long were we driving?”

“We’re almost there,” Kamden told him. “We… we have already arrived in Lille and only have to get to the train station now.”

“Yes? That’s wonderful.” Cedric leaned back with a smile on his lips. “I really hope that they will build a railway between Dunkirk and Lille soon. Preferably before it’s time for us to return.”

Milton chuckled. “Yes, that would be nice,” he said before he drew back the curtain and added, “Oh! Look – we’re there.”

  ***

  Lille, Nord, France – June 1848

  The clock on top of the Gare de Lille struck four on the 16th of June when they arrived in front of the station, the sun still shining high and proud, the people busily walking about.

Cedric gazed up the station’s façade while everyone else got off the carriages and the servants quickly arranged the luggage. Gare de Lille was written in gold letters beneath the clock; the station was made of light stone, was all high windows and semi-circular arches. At the very top, the French flag flapped lazily in the faint wind.

“It’s pretty, isn’t it?” said Milton, stepping next to Cedric. “We are quite lucky as the passenger terminal was completed only two months ago; otherwise, we would have needed to take carriages again or I would have had to transport you alongside my goods.”

“I would have happily agreed to be transported alongside them,” Cedric replied, and Milton smiled.

“What are you two talking about?” asked Cloudia when she joined them. Unlike Cedric himself, she still looked fresh, just like when they had started their journey today, and not dishevelled and ready to run into the next hotel and fall asleep in its foyer.

“The train station,” Cedric told her. “Milton said that it was completed only two months ago.”

Milton nodded. “The terminals in Lille caused quite some disputes and controversies; there were long debates between the City Council, the Ministry of Public Works, and the military as the railways disrupt the city walls. They first built a terminal only for goods transport outside the fortifications before it was decided to add another terminal for passengers and…” He stopped. “I apologise; I rambled again. I didn’t mean to bore you.”

Cedric glanced at Cloudia. “I’m used to such ramblings.”

She briefly glared at him when Milton was not looking. “May I take your arm?” she asked Milton whose cheeks faintly rosed and who, to Cedric’s surprise, looked at him as if he needed his permission. Perplexed, Cedric nodded, and after a sigh of relief, Milton said to Cloudia, “Of course, you may,” and offered her his arm. Cloudia called to everyone else that they had to go inside now. Linked, she and Milton formed the head of their little travel party. Cedric walked right behind them.

Milton expertly manoeuvred them through the crowd, but right before they arrived at the correct platform, Milton was suddenly pulled away by someone into the crowd.

  What?

  Cedric hurried forward, and so did Cloudia, ready to take the dagger out of her dress sleeve. They elbowed their way through the masses and ultimately found Milton in a rather calm area on the margin. Surprisingly, he was neither hurt or had been robbed; instead, he was hugged by a man, tall and broad with dark hair.

“Milton! I haven’t seen you in such a long time!” the man said with a British accent and tightened his already potentially bone-crushing embrace around Milton.

“It’s good to see you too, Quentin,” Milton replied, astonishingly neither sounding surprised nor confused at all. He did not even sound like he was about to suffocate.

The man, Quentin, let go of him and gave him a pat on his back. “How have you been, old friend?”

“Before you lose yourself reminiscing about the past and catching up with the present, could you please explain to me what is going on, Milton?” Cloudia said.

Flushed, Milton rubbed his neck. “Well, this is my acquaintance Mr Quentin Thibault…”

“The name’s Quentin Thibault-Nichols!” said the man, taking Cloudia’s hand and energetically shaking it. “Pleased to see that Milton found new friends! I am so happy to meet you, Miss!”

For a moment, Cloudia stared at Quentin in absolute shock before she shook her head and chuckled. “I am pleased to meet you as well, Mr Thibault. My name is Lady Cloudia Phantomhive.”

“It is just Quentin, Mylady!” he said with a wide smile before he went to shake Cedric’s hand as well. “Hello, my fellow!”

“Hello as well,” Cedric returned. “I’m Kristopher Underwood.”

“Another delay, Baron?” sounded Cecelia’s voice close to them. Cedric craned his head to see that she was standing right behind him, looking quite intimidating in her black dress and veil and with the others behind her.

“Of course not, Marchioness,” said Milton. “We still have time until the train will depart…”

“The train!” Quentin exclaimed and let go of Cedric. “Milton, the prototypes were successfully installed and everything is ready.”

“This is wonderful to hear,” Milton replied a bit uneasy. “Thank you, Quentin.”

“I know we will see each other in Paris later, but before there is no time anymore you have to promise me that you will swing by for dinner or lunch or a brief afternoon tea, perhaps even breakfast if it cannot be avoided! Méline really wants to meet you.”

“I promise that I will try. How are Méline and Isabelle?”

“They are doing well. Izzy has just learned how to walk and it’s such a delight to watch her trying not to bump into every piece of furniture she encounters,” Quentin said, and Milton smiled at his words. In the distance, Cedric heard someone yell something in French.

“Oh, I have to go now!” Quentin briefly hugged Milton again. “So happy to see you again, friend!” Briefly waving to Cedric and Cloudia and the others, Quentin walked away.

Milton ran a hand through his hair and took a deep breath. “I am sorry. Quentin is quite energetic.”

“He certainly is,” Cloudia remarked.

“I do not want to sound impolite,” interjected Cecelia, “but we are standing in the middle of a very busy crowd.”

“Oh, yes, I am sorry,” Milton quickly said with a nervous laugh. “Please follow me.” Quickly, he led them to the train and while Wentworth guided Newman and Lisa to the servant compartments, Milton showed the others to theirs. Milton had got them two cabins in different parts of the train and before he could add anything to this information, Cecelia rashly claimed one of the cabins as her sole own and went away.

“Uh,” said Milton. “I thought that, perhaps… I did not want to sound selfish, but it was meant for… uh… And now, uh…”

Cloudia gently patted his arm. “It’s fine, Milton. I have to apologise for Cecelia; something must have thoroughly annoyed her to behave like that.”

“Isn’t she always like that?” asked Cedric, but Cloudia ignored him. “And I do not mind sharing a compartment with you, Emyr, and the Duke,” she continued. “Barrington, my uncles, or Keegan simply don’t need to find out.”

Milton laughed nervously. “I should have got four compartments; shall I switch places with Miss Greene?”

“Nonsense. It cannot be helped now. Oh, see, we are already moving! Now, let’s sit down before the conductor comes, sees us, and goes around telling others about the strange group standing in their first-class compartment for the whole drive!” Cloudia said and sat down.

“What are the prototypes Quentin was talking about?” she wanted to know when everyone was seated.

“Oh, those,” said Milton and clutched his hands. “French trains are slower than British ones, and I thought that, maybe, it would be good to convert the train a bit by, among others, exchanging the engines and… They are only prototypes – the finished products are used for the Salisbury transport trains – but they still work well and are slightly better than the train’s original engines… You will not notice any difference in speed as you are used to trains driving so fast but the French… I thought that if I used the finished products, they would notice even more that something is wrong… But then, we will arrive about an hour earlier than the official schedule states and… Maybe it was not the best idea. However, it is still good in a way that we will arrive earlier in Creil as it means that we will get more rest and we do need to rest before we continue our journey… This last part will be the most tedious one after all…” He stood up. “I’m sorry… I guess I should switch places with Miss Greene or with her and Mr Newman, or simply go without switching with anyone…”

“There is no reason to be so nervous, Milton,” Cloudia assured him, holding her hand out to him. “And why do you want to get away so badly?”

“I simply thought that, perhaps…” Milton looked down. “That, perhaps, I was interrupting something?”

“You helped us to get here,” said Cedric. “Nobody dislikes you here – or am I wrong in this assumption, Emyr?”

Kamden shook his head.

“See, Milton? Nobody sees you as an intruder.”

A smiled hushed over Milton’s face before he ran his hand through his hair and briefly smoothed it back. “Hah, I’m sorry I don’t know how I came to think of such a thing. Of course, you’re not… I guess the carriage drive was really a bit long.” He sat back down next to Kamden. “I made a fool out of myself, didn’t I?”

“It happens,” said Kamden.

Cedric leaned back. “Milton, how long will it take us to get to Creil?”

“About two and a half hours.”

“How about we spend the time playing a game? I know a particularly infuriating but definitely amusing one: ABC Sentences! We have to make sentences in which the first word starts with an ‘A,’ the second with a ‘B’ and so on until we arrive at ‘Z.’ We could make separate sentences on our own, but it’s funnier if we make a sentence as a group; each of us contributes a word.”

“You could not think of a worse game, could you?” Cloudia said.

“Well, you have the honour to begin, Your Ladyship.”

“Do you think Cecelia will let me inside her cabin?”

“Definitely not; she outright abandoned us and thwarted Milton’s well-laid plans. The first word, Mylady?”

“Do you even want to play this game?” she asked Kamden and Milton and got a slightly hesitant nod and an “It does not sound too bad” as answers.

Cedric grinned, and Cloudia sighed. “Fine. Alison.”

“Bakes! Emyr, you’re next.”

“Huh? Yes? Well, then… cake? Alison bakes cake?”

Everyone looked at Milton who said, “Alison bakes cake, dried…”

“Alison bakes cake, dried, elegant…” continued Cloudia.

“Alison bakes cake, dried, elegant fruit,” said Cedric.

“Gracing?” added Kamden. “Alison bakes cake, dried, elegant fruit gracing…”

They had managed to extend their sentence to “Alison bakes cake, dried, elegant fruit gracing her imaginary, jovial kettle lying miles nearly over Port Quasimodo, reigning supremely tomorrow under vases wrinkling xylems yielding zebras” before Cedric succumbed to a severe laughing fit.

  ***

  After I had calmed down again, we played a few more word games until we arrived in Creil. There, we rested for the rest of the day and spent the night in a nice hotel. Again, I was truly thankful for Milton’s generous planning because, apparently, from Creil, it would take us thirteen and a half hours by carriage to arrive in Nanteuil-la-Forêt!

And this was just the time it would take us if we drove without any breaks! With breaks, it could be fifteen, sixteen hours. Where were my beloved railways when I needed them?

 On the 17th of June, we started at six o’clock, and the sun had long set when we finally drove through the gates of the Château de Charbonneau. Never had a drive seemed so long; never a day so long; never had I been so happy to have solid ground under my feet – and this time for more than thirty minutes straight! On our way home, I would definitely return the Grim Reaper way! And nobody would be able to stop me! I had enough of carriages for the rest of my undead life! I was done in every possible way with this case before it had even begun!

  ***

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

“You cannot make me,” Cedric said, his back straight, his loose hair combed, his voice and countenance serious. “I am a free man with a free will; no one may force me to do something I see no reason to do.”

Cloudia raised an eyebrow and folded her arms in front of her. “So you don’t want to eat anything?”

“I did not say that.”

They had arrived at the Château about an hour ago, had exchanged greetings with Cloudia’s “aunts and uncles” (technically, they were her first cousins once removed) – her little cousins were already in bed, and so was her great-uncle who seemed to be only known as “the Marquis” – before being ushered to their rooms. As soon as Cedric had gazed upon his bed, he had mentally said goodbye to Cloudia and the others for the day. However, as if she was a psychic, Cloudia had burst into his room right before he was about to change into his pyjamas and told him that a light dinner that been prepared for them.

“But how will you eat something if you refuse to go to dinner?”

“It’s almost midnight. I want to sleep,” Cedric replied and in this very moment, his stomach grumbled. Traitor, he thought.

“Come, it will not be that bad,” Cloudia said and held her hand out to him. She had exchanged her white-and-blue-striped traveller outfit with a pretty lavender dress, had released the pins holding up her braid to a wreath at the back of her head; now, her braid was hanging loosely over one of her shoulders. If he had only looked at her and not outside or at a clock, he might have thought that it was day and he had simply blanked out sleeping and waking.

“Don’t you dare abandon me with all these people,” Cloudia continued.

“Aren’t they your relatives?”

“Relatives I have never met before; they are practically strangers. Also, I hope you are aware of what people say about family reunions?”

“I cannot tell; I have never been to one.” Cedric put his hair into a ponytail and fixated it with a ribbon. “And doesn’t your maternal family meet every now and then? On birthdays? Christmas?”

She sighed. “Those are not exactly family reunions; we see each other fairly regularly after all. And people always say family reunions are awful. Aunts and uncles and cousins you have never met and are perhaps not even somewhat closely related to you pinch your cheeks, ask you painfully intrusive questions about your personal life: Is someone courting you? Are you engaged? Married? How many children do you have? How many children do you want to have? Cathleen’s – and August’s – extended family hold family reunions every few years, and she told me all about them. Of course, she does not say that they are horrible, but it sounds like they are.”

Cedric shrugged on a fresh jacket, walked to Cloudia, and pinched her cheek. “Oh, how beautiful you have become, my dear! How many children do want to have, my dear?” he asked her with a broad grin on his face.

“Fifteen,” she said in all seriousness. “I want to have a little army which is able to compete with Her Majesty’s six.”

He laughed. “You will be fine, Countess. Also, keep in mind that not your entire family will be present.”

“Oh, yes. This will await us tomorrow.” Cloudia rubbed her face.

“Wasn’t I the one who dreaded to meet your relatives and not you?” asked Cedric while they walked down the corridors to the dining hall.

“I am not dreading to meet them; it’s just late and I am tired and I would rather not have that many persons around me right now. Especially not ones I don’t know.”

“Well, I am still here – and so are Kamden and Milton. Perhaps even Cecelia.”

Cloudia looked at him, and he gently elbowed her in the side. “Very well, Countess. Now, be honest to me: How many children you really want to have?”

“Fifteen.”

“Countess.”

“I would not carve anything into stone given that I am still young and neither betrothed nor married, but I think three children would be good.”

“Hah, I thought you would say ‘one.’”

“No, one is terrible! I would have liked to have any siblings growing up; I would never have only one child. And if I were unable to have more than one biological child due to complications of some sort, I would definitely adopt.” She gazed up at him. “I have never asked, but… but did you have any siblings, Undertaker?”

Cedric clenched his hands; however, before he could answer her question, a knife flew right past them and got stuck in the wall.

“Sorry,” said a young man with dark brown hair and a seemingly eternal frown on his face when he stepped to them; he could not have been more than one or two years older than Cloudia.

He tore the knife from the wall. “I am Aurèle Beauchene,” he introduced himself. Unlike Cloudia’s “aunts and uncles,” he had an accent when he spoke English. “You must be Cloudia.”

“Yes, I am,” she said with a smile. “So you are one of Amélie’s sons?”

“I am,” Aurèle replied, pocketing his knife. “My little brothers were, uh, excited to meet you; so were Anaïs and Gerard, but they are still little and already went to sleep.”

“What were you doing with the knife, Aurèle?”

“Practicing; Maman does not like it when I practice inside.” He paused a moment. “This is not our house after all.”

“I will not tell her.”

Aurèle nodded. “Thank you. I have to go and help her with, uh, something now. It’s good that you are finally here, Cloudia,” he said, narrowed his eyes at Cedric, and quickly climbed down the stairs.

“He ignored me!” Cedric exclaimed when Aurèle was gone.

“He did not ignore you.”

“He did until the last second – in which he glared at me. Are the rest of your cousins also like that?”

Cloudia shrugged. “I cannot say.”

They walked the rest of the way in silence, and when they had arrived in front of the dining room door, Cloudia turned to Cedric. “Are you ready?”

“Do I have a choice?” he replied and pushed open the doors.

  ***

 Somewhere, United Kingdom – May 1843

  ~Cloudia~

  Despite the staff members’ best efforts to navigate her through the asylum’s less awful passages, it was evident to Cloudia that this place was more of a prison than a hospital, that like Oliver Twist’s workhouse, it was built with a good intention in mind, but ultimately failed in everything it was supposed to be. But despite the asylum’s bleakness and the horrors she imagined behind the numerous doors, she could not help herself but feel excited.

  I could not believe that after three years I was so close to the end. Three years of studying the sketchbook’s pages for any clues; three years of research; three years of wondering. Three years of waiting for the right time to come.

 I could still remember the curiosity, the excitement I had felt when I had found the sketchbook and thumbed through its pages for the first time – thumbed through the drawings of forests, of landscapes, and of villages, of shopfronts and marketplaces and of the little boy with the red-blond hair by the river, staring into the distance, his eyes full of wonder. My eyes must have shone like his when I looked through the sketchbook; the thoughts in my head turning somersaults, trying to figure out what the drawings meant – if they even meant anything.

  The closer Cloudia and her guide got to their destination, the deeper they delved into the asylum, the less filled were the rooms, the cells.

  But not only landscapes and places had been captured by pen and paper: While most people in the sketchbook were evidently nothing but extras, there were rows of pages filled with drawings of one and the same man. Often, he had been drawn from afar – in secret to make the pictures as natural as possible: the man while he was reading in a library, the man while he was in a garden, the man at tea time. There was only one proper portrait of him amongst all these drawings. Finding out who this man in the drawings was had been my mystery to solve for the past three years.

I had expected from the sketchbook to lead me to the village, not to an asylum. Who could have thought that the man in the pictures would eventually end up as a lunatic and be shoved under high surveillance and security precautions from asylum to asylum?

And I, fully knowing about who he was and what he did, had still decided to come here.

  “We have arrived, Lady Phantomhive,” her guide told her and nodded towards the room at the end of the corridor.

“Thank you. I can handle the rest myself,” Cloudia replied and walked to the cell.

  Three years had passed since I had stumbled over the drawings, and now, I had found him. I hugged the sketchbook against my chest. Now, I would meet him.

  In front of the door, Cloudia came to a halt, and in the second she collected herself, a voice came through the little window at the top of the door.

“Who are you to come to visit me?”

She tightly clutched the sketchbook. “I am Cloudia Phantomhive, and I have a proposition to make.”

Translation of “Bei meinem Namen Cedric Kristopher Rossdale schwöre ich dir, verehrteste Gräfin, dass ich absolut imstande bin, einen grammatisch korrekten deutschen Satz zu bilden und diesen nahezu perfekt auszusprechen.” --> "By my name Cedric Kristopher Rossdale, I swear to you, dearest Countess, that I am absolutely capable of forming a grammatically correct German sentence and pronouncing it almost perfectly."

If any experts on travelling by train/ship/carriage in the 19th century (or anyone familiar with the history of trains or ships and the speed of ships) are reading this: I am sorry if I messed up too badly. I tried, I promise. (But then, I purposefully let the Daphne be a bit faster than she may actually be...)

[maiji]

@logicheartsoul Thank you so much for the kind words ^^ And certainly - thank you for your interest and for asking! I love working with ink so I’m happy to talk about it :D

How I got into it

It's only been in the last maybe five or so years that I've actually started to pay more attention to art supplies. In the case of ink, it really started with fountain pens. Long story short, one of my professors was really into them and let me try one of his vintage pens, and I was vaguely interested. Then my best friend really got into them, and I tagged along to a fountain pen show (shoutout to Scriptus Toronto!!). From there it was a slow burn over a period of months from “this is neat” to “WOWWW OKAY I GUESS I’M REALLY INTO THIS NOW”. It was a (relatively, for me) quick entry once I discovered the online fountain pen community. These people are incredibly passionate, highly articulate, and best of all, document EVERYTHING. I found the ink reviews especially spectacular and that’s probably what hooked me the most.

A few other things that helped in the appeal factor:

I have a tendency to grip writing implements excessively hard and exert a lot of unnecessary pressure when writing or drawing with more conventional pens (ballpoints etc.) A number of people mentioned that fountain pens helped them to alleviate this because generally you don’t need/want to apply pressure when using them. I’ve found it has helped.

I've always been interested in forms that combine words and images, and this merges literary and artistic worlds in a very clear way.

I’ve been on a long personal journey of wanting to incorporate much more Chinese/Taiwanese/East Asian heritage and cultural traditions into my work. Thus, I've been gravitating towards things emphasizing brush, ink, water, elements of calligraphy and... not sure if spontaneity is the word I want, but things that help me overthink less when I draw, and get better at letting go. 

How I work with ink

My (main) tools

Fude de mannen: This is basically a fountain pen that mimics a brush for Asian calligraphy. It has a bent nib that enables you to change stroke thickness by varying your hand angle. I love this pen so much I got a second one so I could have a different colour; the washi tape helps me tell which one it is. You can see more of it in the video interview I did with PindotPress.

Brush pen: A pen that is a brush. lol. A number of companies make them; I use the Pentel Pocket Brush because it's the first one I tried and I liked it a lot. It's smooth, has great line variation, and the tip has yet to fail me. (Although the cap started falling apart, hence all the tape on my first one lol.) I currently have three: one for permanent black, one for permanent red, and one because I couldn’t resist buying a coloured version of the pen (I have Diamine Earl Grey in it right now).

Glass dip pen: These dip pens are pretty but what is super awesome is that they are super easy and fast to clean. I can quickly switch between multiple colours of bottled inks. The grooves in the nib hold ink, so you need to slightly turn the pen as you go to access all the ink. You can also get a wider stroke by slanting the pen and using the side of the glass nib. It's not that easy to control your lines, but I actually like this because it creates a lot of happy accidents. And “oops well damn" accidents, but like I said I’m trying to cultivate the whole “learn to let go" mindset.

Waterbrush: Basically a brush that carries its own water reservoir. I’ve used a few different brands but I find I like the Pentel Aquash small the best. Some people fill them with ink like a brush pen, but I’ve not really done that. (I did it once with a different brand that was harder to open/refill and I got mad.) I use it to paint with the inks.

Pencil I got for free: Unless I really am just doodling, I usually draw base pencils of some sort, even if it’s just a very rough, light sketch or a quick thumbnail on another sheet of paper. Every so often I get an inquiry asking what special kind of pencil I use, but I’m afraid they’re just normal pencils rolled with recycled newsprint. I got free samples like a million years ago and I have been using them forever. (I think I’m finally down to my last three.)

Eraser: I’ve been trying a few different ones but it takes me forever to work through an eraser. You want it to be able to pick up the lines without requiring you to scrub and take the ink too or destroying the fibres of your paper. This one actually works pretty well. If you’re really curious you can see the non-destroyed packaging here! lol

Toilet or tissue paper: Something to pick up the water. This is my "undo button” in real life when I’m painting/using the waterbrush. Also I drown everything with water so it’s very important.

Ink swatches: Every time I get a new ink I make a sample and add it here. It’s great for colour palettes and when I’m looking at other inks and trying to decide whether to get it or not (e.g., is it different from everything I already have? My definition of “different” is very generous...). I don’t actually have all these inks; some were samples from friends. I’ve found I tend to gravitate towards very complex, nuanced neutrals. (This sounds so sophisticated but when you see them all it once it's like. Oh. Apparently I like shades of grey, brown, and other hard to classify "muddy" or in-between colours lmao. But more on that in a bit.) Lately I've been getting glittery inks because they're fun and they add a magical dimension to the physical piece.

Here is my current selection of inks - on the shelf to the immediate left of my laptop and my head as I am typing this right now. The box at the bottom left is all the samples. 

My approach

In my mind, I broadly classify my approach into two categories: “dry” and “wet”.

"Dry" - ink only, no water. I have pretty unsteady hands and hate "inking" - if we think of inking as an exercise in achieving a "clean", controlled line drawing with consistent line width/stroke thickness, neatness, etc. So I love pens that support me in what I think of as controlled loss of control - wide variations in brush width and stroke character. Brush pens and fude de mannen pens are perfect for this. They have lines that offer a wide range of dynamic, organic, and textural opportunity.  My Inktober illustrations fall into this category. A few examples below, followed by links to the full set.

Inktober 2017 - fude de mannen

Inktober 2018 - brush pen

"Wet" - Basically I blob water around. Depending on when I do it (before, with/during, after the application of the ink), you can get different results. The water causes the ink to bleed, semi-watercolour-like, and can be used for shading, environmental effects etc. For obvious reasons, this works best with non-waterproof inks (which the vast majority of fountain pen inks are), but you can do this even with waterproof inks. Just let the ink hit water before it has a chance to soak into the paper and you can get cool effects :D. And you can also do it with other pens too, not just fountain pen inks. Examples:

Tiles of Toronto urban sketch series

Raizen and Hokushin doodles

Arikoto from Ooku

As you might imagine, this is really great for on-the-go drawings, because you just need a pen (or a couple of pens) and a waterbrush.

The “wet” approach is also where the very complex inks that look "boring" (greys, taupes etc.) are just complete magic. When the dye elements separate, other colours emerge, and you get really wonderful textural effects and rings of colour where the ink pools and dries. Diamine Earl Grey is a colour I've mentioned several times that I LOOOVE because it separates into blues, browns, purples, even pinkish tones. It's a gorgeous ink. You can see some examples and closeups here.

Another colour that does this really powerfully is Sailor Rikyucha. It’s a dark tea brown-green that separates very easily into pale blue-greens and more and has amazing tonal and textural qualities. The Tendril Wreath illustration here really shows this.

For the most part I look at things I like and then experiment to figure out what happens. After working with the same tools for a while, you get a sense of how the different elements might react and respond naturally.  The Genjimonogatari series employs both dry and wet extensively and is an example of the experimenting and playing I’m doing - I keep finding new aspects to the inks I thought I knew, and making “interesting” mistakes. And trying to fix them as I go with varying levels of success, haha. But I’m always learning!

One more thing about this hobby

I feel compelled to finish with some talk about the pure aesthetic appeal, or the MULTIPLE LEVELS OF FUN I get out of these inks. Not just the colour, not just how the ink behaves, but... the name of the ink as well! Some inks do this more effectively than others. Similar to how the presentation of a dish is part of the experience, the name of an ink adds so much to my enjoyment of it. My least favourite ink names are [standard adjective]+[standard colour name]. My favourite ones are really convoluted with literary and poetic references, I just love them hahaha. Asian fountain pen inks I find tend to do this especially well - partly because of how much you can pack into how few syllables, I suppose. It makes me sad that a lot of sites don’t include the original names, often referencing them with just a number, though I understand it is difficult to translate. But I learn a lot with these names as a starting point! For example, Zhenjing, which I mentioned recently in the Kurama “Light” illustration, took a bit of back and forth with my parents to look up the source and then to interpret the complex line of poetry. It was a fun and fascinating exercise. 

A great name can’t save an ink I don’t like, but a good name elevates an ink I do like even more, and it can be really inspiring for making stuff. For example, take Pen BBS Mirrorflower Watermoon. I adore the colour of this ink - it's a very subtle grey-pale green with silver flakes. I used it heavily in the Hokushin fanart “Northern Deity” (you can see it here with photos of the sparkly).

The name is actually highly recognizable if you're familiar with classic East Asian literature/poetry. I read it out loud to my parents with no context other than "this is the name of one of my favourite ink colours" while they were eating dinner and they both said at the same time, "I know this! DREAM OF THE RED CHAMBER!" lmao. It's a very Buddhist idiom or phrase referring to the illusory nature of things, likening it to the reflection of a flower in a mirror or the reflection of the moon in water.

I hope this was interesting and helpful! ^^

[kristie-rp]

Art, In Perspective

Original © by @cassandra-rp/ @coloredinsanity

“Welcome, everyone, to the annual Port Lyndon art exhibit! The work on display today is from talented artists, all local to our fair city. We’ll be announcing the winner of the art contest in a few hours, but in the mean time, please – enjoy yourselves!” The mayor, someone Pandora couldn’t have named for a thousand dollars (Steve? Stein? Stuart? Ugh. At least his wife was exotic enough to be interesting to paint), walked away from the microphone as his audience began to roam the exhibit.

Even in a room full to bursting with artists of all calibres, Pandora stood out. According to her sisters not boyfriend, this was because of her freshly dyed neon green hair (“It’s not neon, it’s radioactive,” he’d insisted while Oly had laughed, and Pandora had flicked neon green paint at him, mostly getting Oly to laugh harder instead of scowling at her textbook), and chances were high that her neon pink skinny jeans weren’t going to make her more subtle. She lingered awkwardly near the art she’d painted, the works on display that she’d spent hours perfecting.

As much as she wanted to share her work with others, she still didn’t know how to behave at exhibits. Should she be arrogant and obnoxious? Brag about how great her pictures were compared to that awful medieval almost-forgery across from her? Discuss technique? Well, she hadn’t studied the theory enough to discuss the technique, so that was out. Instead of fighting with herself over how to present herself, she settled in hiding near her display, watercolours and sketchbook on hand. At least if she was painting, maybe no one unfamiliar would try to talk to her – for all she recognized some of the members of the crowd, far too many more were the sorts of elite who could afford to hire her dad, and even more were tourists, desperate for a reprieve from the rain that plagued the city (or maybe they thought they were cultured or genuinely liked art? She wasn’t really a mind reader, who was to say?)

Within an hour, she couldn’t count the number of tourists who’d stopped to admire her work. They hadn’t said much – her ruse had worked! – but what they had gotten across was mostly positive. (Actually, the stand out had been the incredibly odd, albeit pretty in a delicate sort of way, woman who looked like she was on the verge of taking off, she’d been so jittery – “Not enough birds, no, not enough,” she’d said about six times. Pan had seriously considered Googling therapist phone numbers to pass on to her.)

The next stand-out was probably looking up into a familiar face: the librarian was there, with her – husband (were they married? Was anyone in Port Lyndon married? Or did they just cling to each other and never actually fall apart?), their magenta and vivid red hair enough to make them stand out even if she hadn’t known them, to some degree.

The librarian, it seemed, was most taken with the painting Pandora had completed that was completely different from her very abstract usual work. “Very interesting,” the librarian murmured, peering over her glasses at the piece. “What inspired that one?”

Pandora knew without looking which piece it was, but she turned anyway. It was larger than the others, completed over summer. A grand garden in thriving greens, dotted with flowers both common and rare, provided a pretty backdrop to a prettier subject. Long blonde hair and a historically appropriate large gown gave some identity to a woman who was, in a word, sad. The painting, so different from the abstract standards Pandora usually followed, almost leant the subject an aura of it, the sadness reaching anyone who looked on. In the background, a dark man hid in the treeline, a spot of shadow amongst the summery greens. To Intella, it made perfect sense. To Pandora, it was just something she had to finish. “O-oh? Well, um – one of my dads clients gave him a bunch of art stuff? I think it was as a thank you for this case. Um, a lot of it was really old, and when I saw it I just – I had this weird dream about this garden.” She gestured to it, as though it wasn’t obvious, and instantly kicked herself for it. “It just felt like it was meant to be. I – I know that’s not really a great explanation, but...”

The librarian – Intella, if Pandora remembered the name right – simply smiled and nodded. Pandora would probably try to get that across in watercolours in a little while, or at least the look on the maybe-husbands face; that sort of awestruck affection could almost outdo Travis’s. “It’s perfect,” Intella was saying, “And it does work quite well, doesn’t it?” She and her maybe-husband lingered for a moment more, gazes on the painting (or so Pandora chose to believe, not wanting to think about librarians and their maybe-husbands looking at her like she was the one on display) before they meandered off, talking quietly to each other. Pandora couldn’t hear much of it, but was absolutely sure she heard something about someone named ‘Paimon’, whatever kind of name that was. Perhaps they thought he’d like it? She didn’t dwell on it for long before shrugging and returning to her sketches, before the feeling of eyes on her forced her to look up again.

Something about the woman before her was familiar, but she couldn’t quite place it. It’d drive her nuts later, but as it was – well. She reeked of money, a diamond tennis bracelet on her wrist – which Pandora noticed mostly because the woman gestured with that hand constantly, doing anything she could to draw attention to it. Long brown hair fell in dark, subtle waves down the womans back, probably to about mid-back (Oly had had hair like that back before Travis became a permanent part of her life and the ponytail became her default – Pandora had plenty of sketches and paintings of it), and there was no kindness in her sharp blue eyes.

Still, Pandora smiled, even if it didn’t quite reach her eyes, tucking her hair behind her ear as she leaned back, the better to see the womans face. “Can I help you at all? A – any questions, or such?”

The sharp laugh the woman bit out was condescending at best, and vaguely terrifying at worst; Pandora very nearly flinched. “I hardly wish to know what you’d have to say for yourself. Your paintings are just about as hideous as you are, I mean – honestly! That hair, those clothes are just – ick. You look like a crack whore, and you call this ‘art’? It’s garbage, and you – you aren’t any better.”

The attempt for casual faded as Pandora sat up a little straighter, offended and surprised by the slew of insults. They just kept coming, on and on, and it took a moment for her to register how they were disconnected, in a way. When it did, a feeling of sadness and anger pooled in her gut as it tightened; she opened her lips to speak, only to have it catch in her throat as she reached for some sort of composure, some sort of control. (Olympias would have a retort, Pandora knew, but she wasn’t her sister, however alike they appeared.)

“Nothing to say?” the woman was simpering. “I’m not surprised. Can you even comprehend what I’m saying? You don’t belong here, and you’re honestly just an eyesore. Do us all a favour and go home – assuming you even have one. I’d also suggest you try something you’re more adept to – perhaps stripping? You certainly look the part,” she trailed off, having been preparing to complete the insults with her name, as a sort of signing bonus of some kind. Once she’d picked up a business card and read the name, though, apparently something even worse than Pandora’s appearance hit her, because her expression morphed into one of angry disgust, and she gave up on any show of debonair whatever, and tossed the card to the ground for who-knew-what reasons.

Pandora didn’t actually care about the reasons, she just wanted to scream, to shout abuse and wreak havoc. But if she did that, she’d risk getting kicked out, and she couldn’t be kicked out. So she looked down at her sketchbook, refusing to dash away the tears that were starting to fall, because that would mean admitting this – this bitch had gotten to her, so she let her breath catch and focused on just breathing.

Luckily, the Cavalry had arrived at the perfect moment. The woman let out a quiet yelp – looking up, Pandora found that Vod was looming behind the woman, baseball bat resting on her shoulder. She didn’t look at all apologetic as she released a loud belch in the woman’s face, forcing the ‘dignified’ woman to choke and cover her mouth. Between Vod’s trademark intimidating stance and her generally disgusting nature, it wasn’t particularly surprising when the woman started to walk away, much more flustered than she had been as she ripped Pandora apart.

Cas snorted from Vod’s size, patting her shoulder for a moment before taking Vod’s bat, letting the girls meet each other. Vod leaned down to pat Pandora’s shoulder, as if she were passing on Cas’s gesture or had learned it from him in the first place. “She was a bitch,” she said immediately, unprompted. “What does she know about anything? That dress would’ve been too small for Tera, and you know what? At least Tera would still look hot in it. I bet that bitch’s tits are wrinkly as fuck.”

Pandora laughed, because she had too, snorting and rubbing at her eyes. “I don’t even know who the fuck she is – I just – was, you know –”

Vod’s smirk appeared, finally, and she slipped her hand from her pocket to reveal the fancy purse clasped between her fingers. “I groped her, you missed that. She missed the fact I snagged this at the same time.” She cackled quietly, flicking it open. “Oooh, credit cards – paypass, I can use this, and if I can’t, lookee here – this looks like $1500, all cash, shit.” Vod pocketed part of it and passed the rest to Cas, since they all knew he was a little more responsible and less likely to lose track of the cash in a fight of some sort. “Aha, here we go. Miren Morrigan. Even her name sounds bitchy, Christ.”

“Miren?” Pandora echoed faintly, looking away from Vod. “Oh.” She knew that name. She wasn’t supposed to, sort of, but she knew.

“She’s a shitty teacher,” came a familiar voice, one painted with disinterest that wasn’t going to fool anyone. Pandora swallowed and looked up at Olympias, her sister finally¸ finally, arrived, Travis in tow. “Little league ran late when some parents wanted to chat about ‘intermixing’,” Oly explained, coming around the desk to force a hug on her twin.

“She’s – what?”

“Morrigan. Miren. I had her for a sub once this year, in bio? She took the lesson plan as gospel and half of us ended up ignoring her and reading ahead in the text anyway.” On the other side of the table, Travis snorted, knowing as well as Pan did that Oly read ahead all the time anyway. “Shut up, okay, point taken. But. But. She’s still a shit teacher, and a bitch. If college does detention, she’d have stuck me in it until Christmas.”

Pan swallowed, remembering the last time Oly had been in detention. That had been caused by – well, it either involved paint or math, and either way, it’d obviously ended badly. All of them had gotten themselves detention at the same time, and how well had that gone? The teachers had been too afraid of the resulting well-behaved chaos to assign any of them more sessions. It was a good memory, good enough to pull a small smile to Pan’s lips as Oly released her from the hug. “You – you do know who she is, though? Who dad -?”

Oly shook her head, pressing a hand to Pan’s mouth to shut her up. “She’s just a massive bitch, Pan. Okay?”

Pandora considered that for a moment, considered Vod with her scowl and Cas with his soft concern and Travis with his not particularly convincing nonchalance, like she wasn’t sure he’d rip someone apart the second Oly suggested it might be a good idea, and considered Oly and her stubborn streak a mile wide. If Olympias didn’t want Miren to be the mother who’d abandoned them, then she wouldn’t be. She would be, as she said, just a massive bitch. Rather than nod, Pan licked the hand pressed against her lipstick, snickering as Oly snatched her hand back, exclaiming her disgust. “If you’re late, what’s their excuse?”

“It was Cas’s fault,” Vod declared immediately, ignoring the eye rolls that got her. “See, I just wanted to come look at the best art ever, but Cas there wanted to hit on the dude with the canvases.”

Cas didn’t disagree, Pan noticed, but she knew that didn’t mean anything. He’d let Vod pin a murder on him if she liked – and hey, look, she was thinking about something else. This is why she loved her friends, and her sister: they were good at what they did, and it was always, constantly, useful for her.