#famous last words said at st. louis

[doubletalkinjives]

"when someone gets pissed" comic strip by isnabel

[flimflamfandom]

Aunt, Uncle, and Finn

Featuring OCs by @ladybugkisses

(this one is kinda long, just so you know!)

Spring. 1938.

Hollywood.

A land of superstars, the rich and famous, beautiful houses and sandy beaches...

all things the Rickaby children wouldn't be seeing.

"Do we HAVE to stay with Uncle Cal, mom?"

"Yes, Toby," Ari answered for what felt like the thousandth time. The 8 year old grumbled in his taxi seat. His sisters, bunched up next to him, were off in their own little worlds - Lucy was reading, and Sophie was staring out the window, in awe of anything other than St. Louis.

The car stopped. The doors opened. The sunlight poured into the cab

and standing there were Aunt Ivy and Uncle Cal.

Aunt Ivy looked stunning in the light as she walked over and hugged dad. She also hugged mom, and patted her back. Uncle Cal looked...droopy. He smiled, but it was weak. And half his tail was missing. He walked, slowly, over to dad, who held him tight, and spoke in a choking voice, "I'm so glad I got to see you again."

Toby knew they weren't really his aunt and uncle - they were something like...cousins?But always, Aunt and Uncle.

"You remember Toby," Mom said, smiling, and ushering Toby towards Ivy. "And Lucy, of course." Lucy waved and smiled politely.

"And you must be Sophie!" Ivy said, kneeling down and picking her up. "Why, I remember when I could hold ya in one hand!"

Mom winced. "Iiiii remember when you did that, too..." She nodded slowly. Ivy scoffed.

"I'm just teasin'."

"How're you, Uncle Calvin?" Lucy asked, rocking back and forth on her feet.

"I'm alright." He said, quietly, carrying a young boy on his shoulders. The boy looked about Sophie's age. He had his mother's fur, and his father's eyes. He was put down by Calvin, and shyly hid behind him.

"Whozat?" Sophie pointed, and walked over.

"Easy, Sophie." Calvin knelt down and smiled. "That's Finn...he's awful shy. He's a good boy, though, eh?" Calvin's voice was quiet, and a bit shaky. Ivy had to help him up.

-

After an hour or so of sitting and catching up, and hearing a lot about tail stuff for some reason, Mom and Dad stood up. "Well, we have to get going," Rocky said, "Gotta go see what the NBC folks want."

"Is Ari gettin' a show too?" Ivy asked. Mom blushed, and shook her head. "No, no...but I help so much with the money, I-" Mom looked at Calvin, and said something. "I don't want to tire him out too much."

"No, yer not tiring!" Ivy looked shocked that mom would even think that. Toby, who'd had to work in a garden under this woman, would disagree with that sentiment, but how would she even be tiring out Calvin?

Must be a grown up thing, Toby thought.

"Ow!" Toby's thoughts suddenly shifted when Sophie stepped on his tail, chasing after a ball. "Careful!" Toby scooped her up, and she giggled and squealed, wriggling in his grip. "You'll pay for that!"

"Nooo!" She yelped, her smile still wide as Toby used all his strength to throw her on the couch. He wasn't a BIG kid - it took a lot out of him! He waved goodbye as mom and dad left, and looked on as Calvin and Ivy glanced at each other.

"It's no crime she doesn't want to see me, Ivy, last time was rough."

"I know, I know. I just...-" The two of them wandered into the kitchen, leaving 4 children alone to their devices.

Lucy had already managed to find something worth reading. She was pouring over some papers at a typewriter, and peering at them. "Wow...this looks like a script!"

"So? That's what Uncle Cal does. He writes scripts."

"But it's a good script!"

"What's it about?"

"Looks like a horror movie. I think." Lucy kept reading, and this time, Toby felt yet another young paw on his tail. He turned around, and saw-

Finn.

Toby went to grab him like he had Sophie, but Finn looked horrified, and jumped on the couch himself, without a word. Toby smiled and laughed. "Gee, guy, I wasn't gonna hurt ya! It's fun!" He said. Sophie, still on the couch, nodded in response. Finn just stared at the two of them, and curled his knees to his chest.

Then, they heard a voice. "Kids! I need to go into town - who's coming with me?"

-

All four of the children BOLTED outside. They knew enough to know that Ivy McMurray was a famous movie actress, so whatever she had to do in town MUST be something exciting. Ivy laughed, and giggled. "No one to stay with Uncle Freckle, huh?"

"I'll be alright."

"Yeah!" Toby said. "He's grown, he can handle himself, let's do something fun!"

Ivy looked over at Calvin, and walked over to him, kissing him softly. "I love you, dearie. Anything happens, let me know, okay?"

"Aye, dear."

"You can handle being on your own?"

Calvin laughed. "The surgery wasn't that bad this time, I'm fine." Calvin kissed her, which drew a 'yech!' from all of the kids, even Finn.

With that, Ivy walked out.

"Where're we going?" Toby asked, sitting in the front seat. He was the oldest, after all.

"Studio lot." Ivy said. "I need to pick up some papers from my dire-"

"The LOT!?" Toby looked amazed. "Where they make the movies!?"

Ivy ruffled his head fur a little. "Where else?" Ivy began to drive down the hill. Lucy, in the back, sat between Sophie and Finn. "Aunt Ivy?" She asked, "Why were you so concerned about Uncle Calvin?"

Ivy paused for a moment. "...your Uncle just had a very...delicate operation." She said. "It affects how he walks a little bit. But he'll-" She hesitated, "He'll be alright."

"Where's his tail?" Sophie asked.

"...it, uhm..." Ivy hesitated some more. Toby swore he thought he saw a tear forming behind her sunglasses. "It...had to be taken off."

"Does it grow back?": Sophie asked.

"Tails don't grow back." Lucy said.

"They do on lizards!" Sophie said, sticking her tongue out at Lucy. Lucy crossed her arms.

"And is Uncle Calvin a lizard?"

"He could be under those big ears!"

Ivy stifled a laugh. "That's-...snrk...that's no way to talk about your..pff...your Uncle!"

-

One thing they don't tell you about film studio lots - it's a bit more boring than one would expect. Ivy had instructed them to wait in the lobby while she got something, and then they would go to another building, and at some point ice cream would be involved. Lucy seemed happy to wait, humming softly and looking at all the posters on the wall. Sophie and Finn were busy learning to communicate without much talking. And Toby?

Toby was bored. Out. Of. His. Wits.

He paced around the lobby, and looked around for something, anything, to do. He walked up to the receptionist. "Hey, is anything exciting going on today?"

"...not that I'm aware of." She said, eyes deep in a magazine. Toby walked off glumly, back to the benches where they were sitting -

Right up to Finn. Who was in his spot

"Finn, I'm sure you're great but you're in my spot. Can you move please?"

Finn just...stared at him.

"May you please move?"

"..."

"Sophie, can you tell him to move?"

"...uhm..." Sophie blinked. "Move?"

Nothing.

"Thanks, Soph'. Doing the lord's work here." Toby said, sarcastically.

"Be nice to Finn," Lucy said, "his dad's dying."

"What? No he's not, Aunt Ivy said he was gonna be fine!"

"They had to cut part of his tail off!"

"So?"

"Remember when they thought they were gonna have to do that to Mom and Dad was sobbing for 2 days straight?"

"...well...I guess-"

"Alright, kids," Ivy walked out, with a few papers, "just a fitting and we're done. Sorry I took s'long!"

-

Finn seemed popular with the people here - he got lollipops. He got pats on his head. He even got to stand with Buster Crabbe. Buster Crabbe! FLASH GORDON, Toby's IDOL, and FINN got to just wave to him!

Before you ask, Toby DID get an autograph - but still, Toby couldn't help but feel jealous when Buster told Finn 'Say hi to yer dad for me'.

And now, they were sitting in another waiting room, while Ivy could be heard from behind a curtain. Lucy, again, found something to do very quickly - and Sophie joined her as she explained how sewing machines work (to the best of her 7 year old ability, of course).

This left Toby, a loud, boisterous young lad, and Finn, a guy who Toby hadn't heard talk once the whole time.

"...so..." Toby looked over. "You, uhm...you like books?"

Finn shrugged.

"...you like movies?"

Finn nodded.

"What's yer favorite?"

Finn thought for a moment, and then, pulled a scary face, holding his hands over his head.

"Dracula?"

Finn nodded.

"Lucky - my parents don't let me watch that stuff."

"Last I checked, they did, and you chickened out!" Lucy said.

"Hey! I don't air YOUR secrets do I!?" Finn giggled a little when that happened.

"So. Finn. Level with me...why don't you talk much?" Finn thought for a moment - thinking through how to explain it. He looked down at his feet, then back up at Toby. He shrugged.

"You don't know?"

Finn nodded.

"CAN you talk?" Finn nodded in response again, and move to open his mouth, until-

"Ah!"

"Oh, sorry, Mrs. McMurray, i didn't pin you too hard did I?"

"No, no - be careful, though!" Ivy's laugh came through - it was bright. Finn's eyes softened at it a bit - he had been stiff a few moments before, but now, he looked more relaxed.

"Alright, kids, all finished - who's in for ice cream?"

"ALL OF US!"

"Don't shout! Girls have to be careful back there!"

-

The five of them sat outside of an ice cream stand - Ivy was careful to hide herself, wearing a head scarf and a pair of shades - and the 4 children diligently went about eating ice cream.

And, of course, Finn was doing something odd.

Sure, he was eating his ice cream normally. He was sitting normally. He just wasn't...talking. or saying ANYthing. He stared at something across the street - a little bird, pecking at the ground. Sophie looked for a moment, before going back to her ice cream.

"...Aunt Ivy?"

"Yes, Toby?"

"Why is Finn so quiet?"

"He gets it from his father." Ivy said, nodding. "He's definitely his father's child." Toby blinked.

"...Does he ever say anything?"

"He only speaks to his best friends. I'm sure he'll be talking to Sophie by the evening!" Sophie was circling around Finn, and trying hard to play one handed rock paper scissors while she viciously attacked her cone.

"Sorry today wasn't as exciting as I thought - I figured we'd get to go on set today."

"We're gonna go on set!?" Lucy asked, a bright hope in her eye.

"Absolutely - but you have to be very careful on a movie set." Ivy said. "It's dangerous!"

"I can be careful! I dunno about Sophie though..." Sophie was trying to climb a fence. "Soph! Get down from there!"

"Okay!" She bounded down, and hit the ground hard. She simply looked down at herself, brushed her dress off, and ran back over.

Finn walked over to his mother, and looked up. He tugged her dress a little, and spoke softly, for the first time anyone had heard. all day.

"...dad?"

"...oh! Goodness - we ought to run back home and check on him, make sure he's alright." With that, the gang piled into the car, and got home.

-

Dinner had gone just fine. Mom and dad had come home from that awfully long set of meetings, and they looked...happy. Food was good, on account of Uncle Cal, and now the kids were getting ready to go to sleep. They were all crowded into the spare room. Uncle Cal walked in, and smiled.

"Night, all."

"Can you sing us a song?"

"Hmm?"

"Yeah! Mama always sings us songs in port...porter...porterhouse-"

"Portuguese?" Calvin finished the word for Sophie.

"Yeah!"

"I don't speak any Portuguese..." Calvin said. "I speak Irish, though."

"Is that why you talk funny?" Lucy asked.

Calvin chuckled. "Aye, that'd do it, I think." He said. "I used to sing an awful lot better before all this tail business."

"Yeah, what's with yer tail?" Toby finally asked. Finn, at the mention of it, leapt out of the bed, and into his dad's arms, and whispered something to him.

"My tail is sick, and it's making me sick. We hope it'll stop, but we'll see." He nodded, and kissed Finn's forehead, letting him back down. "Now, lullaby, right?"

"Please?" Lucy asked.

Without missing much time, Calvin started singing in a language they didn't understand. "Dún do Shúil, a rún mo chroí, A chuid den tsaol, 's a ghrá liom..."

As he sang, Finn nestled into his bed, and went to sleep. Sophie followed suit. Lucy was next...Toby was still a little awake. He yawned, and spoke.

"Lucy says you're gonna die...is that true?"

"We all do, someday." Calvin said.

"But soon?"

"...It'll all be good memories." He said, smiling. "Sleep well, Tobias."

"Goodnight."

[inkbutterflyuniverse]

I'm still unsure about who's parents I like the least.

Honestly, it's between Lynne Bowen, Terri Porter and Cash Caswell

What Ricky's mom did: letting her boyfriend answering her phone, then showing up with him without asking her son when it's been only like two months since she left them, and knowing that her son didn't react well to the separation. She also left for Chicago, which is not close from Salt Lake City at all.

Then, there's Cash Caswell, EJ's dad. He called some people, pulled some strings, so that his son would be admitted to Duke, and then wasn't supportive of his son decision to take a break for a year and tried to send him to The Caswell Success Training School, located in St Louis, Missouri. Now EJ said in the song Speak Out "I call my dad, but never talk ; Can't ever say quite what I want ; No, it's never enough, never enough ; When the words just don't add up ; So I call my dad, and never talk". The lyrics reflect his relationship with his dad who is strained since he refused to follow his wishes.

And finally there's Terri Porter, Gina's mom. She left Salt Lake before the end of season 1 with her daughter. Then in season 2 she left her daughter behind because she wanted to stay. And she came back at the beginning of season 4. So if we do the maths, she left for less than one year. At the end of season 2, Gina waited for her for the opening night, buh she didn't show up and send her son to excuse her.

In season 4, she wanted Gina to be focus and said no boys. The mother is someone very ambitious who wants her daughter to go far in life. She's very happy that Gina got the movie. Then she meets Mack and her no boys policy is forgotten because he's a successful man, he's already famous.

To Ricky, she dismiss him because he's just an average boy trying to figure out his future, she doesn't care that he loves Gina. She's VERY happy to tell him that Gina got that movie, that she will go to New Zealand and insist that it's "with her co-star Mack". Yeah we know you like him and not Ricky. She's here to see HSM3, Miss Jen noticed that it was a big metaphor for Ricky and Gina's lives. But if the mom notices, she doesn't care. It's only after Ricky sang to Gina that he loves her that she's like "yeah maybe I can accept you".

A parent can not like their child's lover, but she didn't even tried to know him when Gina said that it was him that makes her happy. She was just rude without any reason. She liked EJ but she doesn't care to know Ricky...

None of them is at the same level, but they all hurted their child, they all weren't great parents and persons at some moments. They all hurt their child, intentionally or not.

Lynne is better than Cash and Terri, but do I like her because she was there to Ricky after his breakup? No. Because Mike was there all the time, he stayed, he tried for his son, even though he wasn't living well the divorce. Lynne just left, she didn't even tried to stay close to Ricky, she went to Chicago.

Terri wasn't physically there, but she still done things for Gina like their Valentine's tradition, and she sent her son when she couldn't come so that someone was there for Gina. But she still left for her job, and announced that to Gina a few days before leaving. It was the middle of the semester, Gina just got here, and she finally had friends and a project she was implicated into. She could have found a solution so that she would at least stay for the musical. She sent her son but Gina was still excepting her. The last time they saw each other was during the spring holidays, when Gina went to see her. But the mother wasn't able to come back just for one night.

And Cash at least let EJ go to college even of it wasn't what he wanted for his son. They don't really talk anymore, but he didn't forced him to go to his school.

Objectively talking, Cash is the worst, but do I really like him less than Gina's mom? 🤔

[astragreenwoode]

The Spitfire Curse - Chapter Two

Previous: Chapter One • Next: Chapter Three • Masterlist • AO3 Version

Rating: Explicit(18+ ONLY)

Pairings:  Billy Hargrove x Fem!OC

Warnings: Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-Con, Canon-Typical Violence, Graphic Descriptions of Violence, Non-specified Mental Illness, Self-Harm, Drug Use, Hypersexuality, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms

Genre: Adventure, Thriller, Horror, Slow-Burn Romance, Angst, Hurt/Comfort. Smut, Fluff, Slight Canon-Divergence, Fix-it fic

And a special thanks to my beta-reader @take-everything-you-can! Thank you so much for all your feedback and ideas, love!

Chapter Two: Aren't You Supposed To Burn If You're A Star?

Word Count: 8275

Chapter Warnings: Disembodied Voices, Self-Deprecating Talk, Anxiety, Implied Trauma, Language, Slight Smut, Confusion, Gaslighting, Blackouts, Hypersexual Behaviors and Thoughts

Chapter Summary: Maeven remembers the first time she realized she and Billy could become 'family' as Neil sneaks his way into her mother's heart. The morning of the school tour, she wakes up and discovers she doesn't remember all that happened the night before.

April 1984

The first time I met Neil was last November. It was the first time my mom invited him over for dinner. It was more of a ‘date night’ thing, so Max and I stayed out of the way after Mom forced us to shake his hand. We spent the rest of the night in my room, gossiping about how we thought Neil would run away in one of our famous blanket forts with Nutmeg.

At this point, Billy and I had been sneaking around for six months. All I knew about his dad was that his name was Neil and he was a piece of shit. It crossed my mind that his Neil and my mom’s Neil were one and the same, but it would be a big and unlikely coincidence. When he said he had a son, I wasn’t picturing Billy. Max and I envisioned him as a preppy football kid, a carbon copy of his father. As soon as I found out his last name was ‘Hargrove,’ I freaked out and friend-zoned Billy the next day. He wasn’t very happy about it but understood. We started things up again between us after he saved me on New Year's.

My parents divorced pretty much immediately after I yelled at them that fateful day in February. Shortly after that, Dad took Lucy and Bullet and high-tailed it to San Francisco. Max and I only saw him once a month, on second-rate holidays, and for a few extended trips during the summer. He would come to see us whenever he was back in San Diego for work. Those were the times Mom couldn’t come up with a reason for us not to go see him.

Mom was still around, of course, but it was different now that dad was out of the picture. She’d always been blurry around the edges, but it was worse after they separated. She was there for us in a sort of thin, floaty way, like she was drifting away from us and we couldn’t hold onto her. My mom barely spent any time in her craft room, anymore; something she used to do every day. It felt kind of tragically magical, the way her personality got swept up in whatever new guy she was dating.

First, there was Donnie, who was on disability for his back and need my mom to be his mother for a while. Then there was Vic from St. Louis. That was really the only interesting thing about him. Gus had heterochromia; one green eye and one blue one. Ivan picked his teeth with a switchblade on our couch. They all came and went in a flash. Max and I never really minded them. They were friendly or goofy towards us. After the honeymoon phase, their true colors came out; they were either in debt, had major codependency issues, living in their cars, or constantly winding up drunk in a county jail cell. They always left, and if they didn’t, Mom kicked them out. We never got attached to them. We knew better than that; none of them could hold a candle to our dad.

Neil was different. Neil was the only one of Mom’s recent boyfriends who had brought flowers to their date. He complimented her cooking, saying it was the best meatloaf he had ever tasted. They spent the rest of the night drinking wine while listening to records in the living room.

He and Mom met at the bank, where she was a teller and he was a security guard, slowly moving up to management since he was friends with the boss. He told Mom she looked like an old-timey framed painting or Sleeping Beauty as she stood behind the glass, handing out lollipops to the kids and deposit slips to their parents. It seemed romantic, but Max found it gross; “Sleeping Beauty’s in a coma, and a painting doesn’t do any interesting shit. They both just sit there and look pretty.”

At the time, I just praised her for her keen sense of observation, and for how smart she was. I know now that I should’ve taken that comment more seriously. It didn’t occur to me that Neil saw my mom as something he could own.

The night Neil finally introduced us to Billy was a chilly April evening. He took us to Fort Fun; known for its go-kart track, arcade, mini golf course, and jungle gym. It was the kind of place guys like Neil wouldn’t be caught dead in. Dad used to take us there to celebrate the last day of school. Later, Max found out he took us there because he wanted to impress us, to make us think he was fun.

To be fair, Max and I ended up having a good time that evening. I needed a way to loosen up; a way to escape the mess my life spiraled into the last three months and a way to distract me from where I would be in a week's time.

That night, Billy ended up being late to the party. Neil said nothing, but Max and I could tell that he was seething inside. He tried to act like everything was normal, but I noticed how his hands left dents in his foam coke cup. Mom fidgeted with a paper napkin while we awaited Billy’s arrival, folding it up into little squares. Max bounced her leg and I scratched at the scars on my arms as we looked over the menu.

Max passed me a note underneath the table. We used little notebooks that we passed back and forth to send each other silent messages. We had been doing it ever since we were little; ever since she moved into the room adjacent to mine. We would slide the notebooks against the carpet, across to the other’s room, and talk in a way so we wouldn’t wake Mom and Dad. She wrote in her signature red ink; “I bet this is all a big scam. He probably doesn’t even have a son. He probably lives in a basement and eats stray cats.”

I giggled as I wrote back; “This isn’t a horror movie, Max.”

“Either way, let's keep him away from Nutmeg.”

Even though it wasn’t true, I imagined what it would be like if this was a horror movie. Mom would definitely be the first to die. But at least I could sit through this dinner without worrying whether or not the adults knew about my and Billy’s little love affair. Anything was better than watching Neil glare out at the parking lot every two minutes and then smile tightly at my mom.

The four of us were working our way through a game of mini-golf when Billy finally decided to show his face. The engine of his Camaro was so loud that everyone on the course turned to look. He slammed the door shut behind him and walked over to us, cutting straight through the mini-golf course, stepping over a big plastic tortoise and onto the fake green turf.

Neil gave him the sour look he always gave whenever something didn't live up to his unrealistically high standards. "You're late."

Billy just shrugged, not even giving his father a glance.

"Say hello to Maxine and Margaret."

Billy gave Max a slow, cool nod like she was me and we passed each other in the halls. Max smiled, holding her putter by its sweaty rubber handle. 

As much as Max and I hated this whole situation, the only silver lining she saw was getting a big brother. And as awkward as that made things with Billy and me, I wanted that for her. He had been my lifeline, my savior from everything going wrong in my life, especially in these past three months. If he could take care of her while I was blacking out and going insane, I'd gladly welcome him and Neil into the family.

"You go to Newport High, right?"

"Umm, yeah. Hi."

I couldn't deny that it hurt a little when he pretended not to know me, as if he had forgotten that beautiful thing we started last summer.

"You have nothing to be upset about, bitch. You were the one who ended things with him. And he hasn't even touched you since everyone found out what a slut you really are."

I said nothing back to it this time. Anything I would've said wouldn't have made a difference, anyway. It never did.

Later that night, Billy, Max, and I hung out by the skeeball stalls while Neil and Mom walked down the boardwalk together. The very sight of them being gooey at each other was starting to get annoying, and it made me wanna throw up. But she seemed really happy, so I just kept on taking turns with Max as we played skeeball, trying my best to ignore it. 

 Billy leaned his elbows on the railing of the boardwalk, looking out over the go-kart track from where we were above it. He casually balanced a cigarette between his fingers and turned to us as he breathed out the smoke. "So. . .Susan seems like a real buzzkill."

"Ha! You have no idea!" Max practically howled

I shrugged. Mom could be fussy, nervous, and absolutely no fun at all, sometimes. But she was still our mom.

"So, Margaret. . .Maxine. . ."

Unlike me, Max had better coping skills. She tucked her hair behind her ear and tossed the skeeball into the corner cup for a hundred points. The machine under the coin slot whirred and spit out a paper chain of prize tickets."Don't call us that. It's Maeven and Max,” she said, not breaking her eye contact from the game.

Billy glanced back at us with his signature sleepy smile.

"Well then, you've got quite the mouth on you,” he chuckled.

"Yeah, only when people piss us off,” I shot back. It definitely wasn’t the first time we heard it.

"Which seems to happen often with you, Iron Maeven," Billy’s laugh was low and gravelly. Max turned to me, confusion and awe written on her face.

"Iron Maeven?"

"It's. . .what everyone called me back at school."

I didn’t understand the reference until I listened to Iron Maiden for the first time. It was my first introduction to the metal scene; a sub-culture very prominent in California. I quickly became enamored with the genre. The unlikely harmony of music and screaming was probably the only healthy coping mechanism I had to deal with my parent’s divorce. It somehow expressed how the whole ordeal made me feel better than I could ever verbalize.

"You have a badass criminal nickname and you didn't tell me?! That’s so bitchin’, Sis! High-five!" Max exclaimed, holding her hand up. I slapped her hand as I laughed. She had gotten much more fun ever since I taught her how to swear effectively.

"Mad Max and Iron Maeven. All right, then. I can work with that."

Billy’s Camaro sat underneath a streetlamp. Its jet-blue paint job made it look almost like a scaled creature from another world; a monster. I could tell how much Max wanted to reach out and touch it. It was the same look she gave to Dad’s Impala.

As Billy turned away again, he watched the go-karts that zoomed along the tire-lined tracks. Max sent her last skeeball into the one-hundred cup and took the last of her tickets.

"You guys wanna race?" She asked.

Billy snorted and took a drag from his cigarette.

"Why would I wanna screw around with some little go-kart when I know how to drive?"

"Cause it's fun?" I challenged.

"I know how to drive, too,” Max said.

"Sure you do,” Billy rolled his eyes, not even blinking. He tipped his head back and blew out a plume of smoke. He seemed bored underneath the flashing neon lights on the boardwalk, but almost sounded friendly.

Dad taught me how to drive while Max sat in the backseat. He once taught her how to use a clutch in a parking lot of a Jack in the Box. In her eyes, that qualified her as a driver just from observing us. If she drove any way like she drove a go-kart, I’d never allow her behind the wheel.

"I do. As soon as I'm sixteen, I'm gonna get a Barracuda and drive all the way up the coast."

"A 'Cuda, huh? That's a lot of horsepower for a little kid."

"So? I can handle it. I bet I could even drive your car."

Billy stepped closer to Max, leaning down so that he was staring right into her face. He was still smiling.

"Max," he taunted in a sly, singsong voice. "If you think you're getting anywhere near my car, you are extremely mistaken." His smile never faded. He laughed at her again, putting out his cigarette with the toe of her boot.

"What about me?” I counter-offered as I leaned against one of the wooden light posts on the boardwalk. “Do I get driving privileges?"

Billy stepped close to me and leaned himself on his forearm above my head, towering over me. His baby blue orbs were bright, staring back into my ocean-colored ones. I inhaled a whiff of his scent; he smelled both delicious and dangerous like cigarettes and hair products mixed with engine oil. For a moment, I panicked. It seemed like he was about to kiss me right then and there, right in front of my sister. 

But I composed myself as he just said "I'll think about it,” and left me on the edge. I fought the heat between my legs and the urge to go rub one out in the bathroom. Maybe I’d even drag him along with me.

“No fair!”Max whined.

“It's about as fair as it gets, actually,” I laughed, tousling her hair. Billy loomed over us, studying our faces.

“You’re just a kid,” he said again. “But I guess even kids can tell a bitchin’ ride when you see one, right?”

“Sure,” Max replied.

I figured that Billy was just kidding around with us that night. It was just the way guys talked. All the slackers, lowlifes - poor excuses for men our dad hung around at the Black Door Longue down the road from his new place in San Francisco. When they teased Norman Mayfield about his daredevil daughters and teased us about boys and school, they were only playing.

But there was something new in Billy’s demeanor and the way he talked that I didn’t recognize. He looked at me and my sister like we were something to eat. I should’ve bookmarked that moment as a red flag for later, but I was dumb. I was in love with the idea of having him around more often; in love with the idea of love. And Max and I had been dumb enough to believe this was the start of something good. That the Hargroves were here to make our family whole again. Or, at the very least, okay again.

. . .

Maeven was always a heavy sleeper, often too deep in her dreams and unbothered by the world outside her mind. Her parents and sister often had to give her the extra nudge to wake up after becoming too annoyed by the blaring alarm clock that looped one too many times. Even if she had trouble getting to sleep, especially within the past 9 months, she slept like the dead.

This morning was one of those rare occasions where Maeven woke up before her alarm. The last thing she remembered was leaning into Billy's massage before passing out. However, she found her body ached more intensely than the night before; most likely due to the twisted positions she often found herself in while she slept.

It was nothing that a few stretches and a hot shower couldn't take care of. But her hair was mysteriously damp like she already showered the night before. She brushed her nape, not thinking anything of it; it was probably just sweat.

As she roused from her sleep, she felt one of her pillows in between her legs that wasn't there before. It was scrunched up like it was hugged tightly. soaked with her arousal that seeped through her panties. Maeven recalled having a couple of easy orgasms in the midst of her dreamless, dark rest. She also remembered being very scared, filled with dread, but couldn’t pinpoint why, either.

Ever since hitting puberty, she had a tendency to writhe and hump in her sleep, chasing her high in dreamland. It became more uncontrollable after what happened nine months prior. Billy must've put the pillow between her legs before going back to his own room. He was thoughtful like that, in the little ways that made a big difference.

It was a Sunday morning, the birds still singing as the cool wind blew through the open windows of Maeven's room. Maeven and Max used to wake up early every Sunday for their mother. As soon as they both completed their first communion, Susan stopped requiring her daughters’ attendance. Their Mom continued going on her own, but the two sisters got their well-deserved lazy Sunday.

Hawkins High School and Middle School started their classes three weeks ago. It was inconvenient for both Billy and the Mayfield sisters. Billy was forced to move right before his Senior Year of High-School. Max had to leave behind everything she ever knew. Maeven felt like she left half her heart in California, carrying what remained with her to Hawkins. But as long as no one found out she was an 18-year-old Junior, she’d be fine.

Coming to the party late was going to suck. The students were still getting a feel for the new school year but settled into their regular routines of classes and clubs. The blended siblings would have to go through weeks of cramming what they missed at the start of the year; enduring pressuring questions about being the ‘new kid’ and being forced to introduce themselves in each class like they were giving an oral presentation about who they were.

The next couple of days were really going to blow. Neil and Susan had already enrolled their kids the first day they arrived. Today, Billy, Max, and Maeven were going on a tour of the campus before they started classes the following morning. Maeven was the only one interested in the tour, even if she wasn't looking forward to their first day, either. It would be good to get a feel of the campus; have a way to navigate without feeling totally lost on the first day.

As Maeven’s body finally caught up with her brain, she shamelessly contorted her body with her stretches, only satisfied when her back arched and her head hang upside down. Her mind wandered to how she once made fun of her mother for how ridiculous she thought she looked striking her yoga poses. When she collapsed back onto her mattress onto her side, wincing as she felt a sharp pain on her upper-right arm. Maeven lifted the short sleeve of her sleep shirt to inspect, confused by the bandage that she didn’t remember putting on. Taking a look over herself, she saw a few more bandages along both her arms, as well as a couple on her chest.

Maeven slapped herself hard across her cheek, punishing her body and mind for acting without her permission again. She must’ve blacked out last night, or sleepwalked again. There really wasn’t a difference between the two anymore, they both ended up in the same way; with her doing things she later regretted. Whenever she was kicked out of the driver's seat, any number of bad things could happen. Last night, she must’ve cut herself amidst her blacked-out mania. Uncomfortably familiar with this scenario now, Maeven knew what must’ve happened; Billy was forced to patch her up yet again.

“Mae-Mae?”

At the sound of a knock on the door accompanied by her mother’s voice, Maeven instinctively buried herself back under her quilt and pretended to be asleep. Mom didn’t need to know about this. She thought she was getting better.

“Maevey?” Susan asked again, knocking before cracking the door open a smidge and poking her head through.

Maeven put her sleepy mask back on, moving the quilt off her face and letting out a soft moan as if she had just woken up.

“Hey, mom. . .” she mumbled, burying her face into her sheets.

“Hi, sweetie,” Susan smiled, coming over to sit on the foot of her daughter’s bed. “I thought I heard you. You’re up early.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Maeven breathed out, relieved now that her mom seemed to have bought her performance.

Susan Mayfield’s smile was contagious, annoyingly so. It had become more frequent once she married Neil. Maeven could do without her constant positivity since it wasn’t always appropriate, and sometimes even toxic. But seeing her mom happy was better than seeing her in constant misery the way she used to be.

“That’s good. You must be excited, huh?”

“That’s a word for it,” Maeven yawned out, rolling her eyes before closing them. The sun seemed especially bright this morning. Her mom stood up from the bed and asked her daughter before leaving; “Pancakes or waffles?”

Still pretty out of it, Maeven’s brain processed her mom’s words slowly as she looked back up at her.

“Huh?”

“Breakfast, Maevey,” Susan clarified, visibly puzzled at her daughter’s confusion.

“Oh, ummm. . .waffles, please,” she replied, putting on a small smile again.

“Good thing I found which box the waffle iron is in.”

. . .

While showering, Maeven always did her best not to look down at her body as she washed herself. She barely even saw her own naked figure in the mirror anymore. The closest she had ever gotten was looking at herself in her bra and underwear. Even then, she teared up looking at the many small scars that littered her flesh. The only time she felt remotely good about her body is when she was being touched by someone else. When she was touched, when Billy touched her, she no longer felt like a stranger in her own body. The way he simultaneously worshiped and used her made all the scars momentarily disappear, replacing them with tender bites and bruises no one else could see. Just the thought of it made her hand wander down between her legs. . .

Maeven slapped her cheek a couple of times at her impulses as someone barged into the bathroom. She hates herself for even feeling a little bit excited at the thought of being caught like this. The whole concept was so hot to her, but simultaneously sent a violently revolting shiver of shame down her spine.

“Max! What did we say about privacy!?” she shouted as she peeked her head out from behind the curtain. Max rolled her eyes and dramatically groaned, shamelessly pulling down her sleep pants so she could pee.

“There's a curtain separating us, Maevey! Besides, we’re both girls. Don’t get your panties in a twist.”

Maeven chuckled, closing the curtain as she washed the last of the hair products from her head.

“I’m not wearing panties, Squirt. I’m showering.”

“Okay, fine, don’t get your pubes tangled then.”

In an instant, both sisters burst out laughing. Crude jokes had become their preferred pass time once Max finally became a teenager.

“No! Nope! That is so much worse!”

“Girls?” Susan Mayfield probably waited half a second after knocking before opening the door, too curious about the commotion to consider the very concept of privacy.

“Mom! Get out!” Her daughters yelled in unison. She retreated quickly, keeping the door open enough to get her message across.

“Breakfast will be ready in ten minutes.”

“Okay, fine! Just close the door!” Max groaned. 

At the sound of the door locking shut, they relaxed. But just as Maeven lathered up her poof with body wash, Max stood up to flush the toilet as she pulled up her pants.

“Ow! Fuck!” Maeven winced and cowered away at the now boiling water shooting down at her from the showerhead.

“Shit! Sorry!” Max exclaimed. Maeven chuckled as the water now only hit her feet.

“No, no, it’s fine, you didn’t know. Neither did I.”

It really was fine. It hurt, but Maeven didn’t like hearing her baby sister sound so pathetically scared of the potential backlash.

“Won’t happen again.”

“I know, Squirt, but if I have third-degree burns on my ass by the time I’m out of here, you’re dead!”

“Yeah, sure.”

There was quiet for the next couple minutes or so as Max brushed her teeth and Maeven washed her body, her eyes still closed.

“Okay, there, it’s all yours.”

“Bye Max.”

As she stood underneath the showerhead, finally alone, Maeven let the hot water wash away all the pain. Outside, everything felt chaos, out of her control. Being closed off in a shower like this was one of the only times she felt at peace, as if she was safe and warm in the womb again. But it wasn’t perfect. She had no control over the sound in this environment; no way to block out the silence with the mixtapes from her dad on her walkman. This bathroom was too small to fit her boombox anywhere without it being in danger of being tripped on or having water splashed on it. The sound of running water wasn’t enough for Maeven to work with, leaving her brain to run wild without her permission.

“Stupid, fucking insane bitch. You’re a stupid fucking insane bitch, Maeven.”

Even though the voice came from inside her, it wasn’t her own. Whatever or whoever came to invade her head with poison possessed a tone deeper than hers. It was smooth and oddly familiar, but often scratchy and distorted. If she had heard this voice before, Maeven couldn’t for the life of her identify it correctly.

“Yeah. . .well at least I know I’m insane,” she scoffed back as she ran her soaped-up poof around her body, eyes still shut tight. “That makes me better than all the crazy people in denial of their craziness.”

“Really? It sounds worse. Like you’re on a whole new level of crazy.”

Maeven rolled her eyes back into her skull so hard it hurt. There was no winning with this voice. It always had something else to say.

“Shut up.” It was redundant at this point, trying to quiet the voice. It never shut up. It always came back, eventually.

Maeven subconsciously brought one hand to the nape of her neck to feel the bottom of her hair. It was still choppy from when she impulsively cut off her long fiery curls back in February. She never even bothered to have it evened out, even though she cut it every month to keep it from growing. She had been growing it out since she was ten, but it just didn’t feel like her any longer. 

Her other hand ghosted over her pelvis, tracing the large scar above her left ovary in the shape of a heart. It didn’t hurt when she touched it anymore, but it hurt if it was pressed on too hard. That was an improvement. Her periods were still extremely painful, no matter how well her body adjusted to the months of healing from surgery.

Maeven could still remember the exact way it felt when it was carved into her flesh.

“You know you can never wash it away, right?”

“I know. . .”

. . .

A shiver shot down Maeven’s spine as she took her meds at the breakfast table; the combination of eight different kinds of pills left a bitter taste and a horrible feeling. But she needed them to stay together, and she hated that. She was mad that her body and brain couldn’t function like everyone else’s, and that she needed pills to feel normal. It didn’t feel as bad when she took them with food or any drink other than water; the taste distracted her from the grossness of it all. Her mom’s waffles seemed to be the best of those distractions.

Billy slipped his hand under the table and gave Maeven’s hand a comforting and reassuring squeeze at her sign of discomfort.

Meals between the newly-blended family were always awkward, the silence seemingly screaming at them. Max and Maeven both practically inhaled their food, relieved to finally have a familiarly wholesome meal. They had been doing takeout for the past week while waiting for the moving truck and figuring out what goes where. Billy and his dad ate at an acceptable pace. Susan always ate fairly slowly, but would sometimes eat so slowly as if she didn’t deserve what was being served, even if she made it herself; it had been more present since the wedding.

“So. . .you kids excited for tomorrow?”

At the sound of Neil’s voice, Maeven jumped and Billy pulled his hand away from her leg.

“Not really,” Max replied after swallowing her food.

“Nope,” Billy said, bluntly.

“I’m still deciding,” Maven mumbled.

Neil said nothing to them, just laughing as he gave them that same icy stare.

“Ah, I never liked school either. But either way, I expect you kids to be on your best behavior,” he said in between bites of sausage and eggs. “This is a chance for a brand-new start for all of us and we don’t need you making things tougher than it needs to be; especially you, Margaret.”

Maeven wanted to tell him off, to tell him for the umpteenth time that that wasn’t her name. She hated it when people called her that; she said it made her sound like an old lady, which her aunt Margaret on her Dad’s side took playful offense to, It wasn’t like she was wrong. But she didn’t. And it wouldn’t have mattered, anyway. So instead, she just put on the smile she knew Neil wanted from her and said; “Trust me, I’m not looking to start anything. Just gonna try and blend in this year.”

“Oh, please, Maeven. You’ve never blended in,” Billy scoffed, leaning over to playfully shove her arm. He did it a little harder than Maeven would’ve preferred, but she said nothing.

“Yeah,” Max said with a mouthful of waffles, “especially not with that hair."

She leaned over to lightly pulled at her sister’s identical red locks.

“Ow!” Maeven laughed, slapping her hand away before giving Billy a slap on the shoulder. “Okay, I did not come here to be abused while trying to enjoy a delicious meal. You know what they say; no time like the present, guys.”

The kids turned back to their plates, but not before Maeven could return her sister’s tug.

“And it's your hair, too, Squirt."

“Maevey, Max,” Susan spoke up, giving her daughters the eyes she only gave them when she was about to lecture them or ask them to do something for her. “I picked out some outfits for you and laid them on your bed for tomorrow.”

Max dropped her fork and rolled her eyes.

“What?” Maeven looked at her mother

“Yeah, I can dress myself,” Max whined.

“It’ll be your first day in a new school, a new town. I thought you might wanna wear something special.”

“Why?”

Maeven and Max knew they should want to make their mom happy, but they sure as hell weren’t about to show up to their first day at new schools dressed like someone they weren’t.

“Oh, you know. It just seems like such a waste. You girls are gorgeous, but I never see you dress up or try to look nice. And I want you to make a good impression on those kids.”

The idea that they needed to look nice for Hawkins was laughable to Maeven and Max. But they stayed silent. Susan always did this; tried to mold her daughters into something they weren’t, especially since their dad left. Both Mayfield girls hated it. It hurt them to think that their mother didn’t like them the way they already were. Dad would never make them feel like that. But since their mother married Neil, they felt like they had to tolerate it more.

“Promise me you’ll at least take a look, okay?”

The sisters said nothing, finding their half-finished plates suddenly very interesting. They both seethed, Maeven tapping her fingers against the tabletop as Max shook her leg under the table in frustration.

“Girls, answer your mother,” Neil said, not looking up from his breakfast. It wasn’t a question, it was a demand. They knew that by now.

“Alright, Mom.”

“Okay.”

Susan gave the girls and Neil a smile before going back to her meal. But Neil had one more piece of news to report.

“Margaret, before your classes tomorrow, you’ll have to check in with the sheriff’s office this afternoon. You’ll also need to check in with the school counselor before you leave campus tomorrow.”

The words ‘sheriff’ and ‘counselor’ made Maeven’s heart-rate spike. She always had problems with the authorities. It may be surprising since her Dad was in the military, but she was scared of cops; she had a reason to be ever since she was tackled by them in the ninth grade. And she had spent more than enough time with counselors in inpatient treatment for three months. She was tired of being forced to relive her trauma, justifying her behavior, defending herself, and trying to convince people she wasn’t crazy.

“What? What do you mean?”

“Have you really already forgotten? We talked about this last week.”

She didn’t remember that conversation but nodded to her stepdad as if she did.

“Sorry. . .”

“Don’t be sorry. If you were really sorry, you wouldn’t do it.”

Maeven felt Billy rub her knee again under the table. She didn’t say anything after that. She just finished her meal as she snapped her rubberband against her wrist, trying not to think about how hard she’d fuck up her meeting with the cops this afternoon. She just wanted this part of her life over and done with. But she’d push through this; she had help. All she had to do was put up with these weekly meetings with cops and counselors for the next year, and she’d be home-free.

“You always fuck up everything, no matter what. Why would this time be any different?”

Maeven didn’t feel like eating, anymore. Even if she had those on her side who wanted to help her, it was hard to stay positive when you feel like you were a hostage in your own body, a prisoner in your own mind.

“Everyone finished?” Susan asked, standing up from the table. Maeven nearly jumped at the offer to clear the table; anything to escape Neil’s harsh gaze.

“It’s okay, Mom. I got it,” she said, taking her mother’s plate before going for the rest. As everyone left the table, she cringed as Neil passed her with his final words of the morning.

“Good girl.”

“He totally knows about you and Billy. He knows how you let him fuck you in his Camaro like the filthy little whore you are. Once mom goes downhill, he’s coming for you, next.”

“Now everyone get your things together or we’ll be late for the tour,” Susan called out from the living room.

. . .

As Maeven laced on her doc martens, she tightened the lace, one, two, three times on each foot. The bags underneath her eyes were showing no sign of disappearing. No matter how much sleep she had gotten, she always looked exhausted. Eyeliner helped, but she didn’t wanna give boys the wrong idea. She kept her aunt’s evil eye necklace hidden underneath her muted striped sweater. Neil would throw a fit about her being a ‘devil-worshipping-hippe’ otherwise. 

The outfits her mother laid out on her bed for her made her want to throw up; too many bright colors and ruffles. They were shallow Christmas gifts with the best intentions. Susan thought her daughter would look nice in them, but never considered that she wouldn’t like them. Maeven would only wear them at formal events, or mother-daughter date nights to make her happy. But she didn’t feel like she needed to do that, anymore; her mom seemed ignorantly happy, floating.

It was a lot colder today as if someone flipped the switch from ‘summer’ to ‘fall’ with a snap of their fingers. Maeven opted for her long black skirt but still slipped on her fishnet stockings and armlets. She liked the way they made her feel, and how they gripped her skin like a hug. She used to shamelessly wear the stockings underneath skirts and shorts that she got in trouble for at school. The armlets provided her with a distraction; the oddly soothing feeling she got from running her fingers against the netted fabric was a better way to cope than scratching her arms. The idea of ruining them with her bad habits was enough to dissuade her, too.

As Maeven gave herself a look over in the full-length mirror in the corner across her bed, she didn’t notice herself. She felt alright; that was all she felt when she looked in the mirror now. What she was more focused on was the night light that should’ve been plugged in next to the mirror. It had been there since the first night they moved in. Where did it go?

“Are you gonna bring him?”

“What?”

Maeven blinked, forgetting where she was for a moment and what she was supposed to be doing. The disembodied voice seemed to echo throughout her blank bedroom.

“Woodsy’s looking right at you. You gonna bring him with?”

She looked in the mirror again, finally grasping what it was alluding to. Her Woodsy Owl plush laying on her unmade bed, seemingly looking up at Maeven through his reflection in the mirror.

“Today or tomorrow?”

“At all.”

Her dad gave that plush to Maeven on her birthday ten years ago, along with a ‘give a hoot, don’t pollute’ bumper sticker she ended up sticking to the doors of her wardrobe. She had Smokey Bear and Ranger Rick to complete her set of U.S. Forest Service pals. But Woodsy was always her favorite. She had been especially reliant on him these past nine months, bringing him with her to cling to in case a panic attack suddenly came. But she wasn’t going to school then.

“I’m not gonna walk into a new high school with an old toy stuffed into the bottom of my backpack.”

“No. Don’t do that. Not to Woodsy. He’s your friend. You should walk in with him tucked under your arm.”

Maeven was almost eighteen. She graduated from inpatient therapy, she could drive, and she had a bright future ahead of her as long as she kept her shit together. Walking into Hawkins High with a childhood toy would make her the laughingstock of the student body.

As she held the love-worn owl plush in her hands, she couldn’t shake the internal need to bring him with her. But instead, she spoke back, “Why would I do that?”

“So they’d all leave you alone?”

But Maeven didn’t want to be left alone. Well, she did, but this was different. She wanted people to mind their own business and just let her be in peace. But she didn’t want to be alone at Hawkins’ High. As much as she loved Billy, she longed for her own life again.

“I want everyone out and in the cars in two minutes! Come on, let’s go! Chop chop!”

Maeven shot up from her bed at Neil’s voice, stuffing the plush into the bottom of her bag, giving herself a mental slap in shame.

It was ironic that even though her dad was the one in the military, her stepdad was the one with the drill sergeant-like attitude.

. . .

Susan, Neil, and Max piled into the family station wagon with the wooden belt, while Maeven rode along with Billy in his Camaro; the way the family always drove. For some reason, neither of their parents was suspicious or had a problem with it. Out in the open, Billy and Maeven were playful, as if they had actually been brother and sister forever.

No one knew when their attention was pointed elsewhere how much they set each other aflame with desperate kisses and electric touches. They didn’t know how much Maeven loved it when Billy showed her absolutely no mercy, how he dug his thumbs into her hips so hard they would leave bruises as he used all his strength to pound against her cervix. They’d be shocked to discover just how many times he fucked so possessively that she couldn’t remember anything the next day. But Maeven and Billy stopped caring enough to keep count.

Maeven wondered if that was how things went down the night before. It definitely wouldn’t be the first time.

“Go on. Ask him. You know he’s waiting for you to.”

She said nothing back, continuing to bounce her leg as she fiddled with her hands in her lap. But her heart stopped and time seemed to stand still as Billy pinched her skirt, hiking the fabric up her leg until he slipped his fingers under the hem to grip the flesh of her thigh. Maeven’s breath hitched in her throat, as the hum of the Camaro's engine sent a warm purr, mimicking the electricity that suddenly pulsed deep in her tummy. The memories of the time he revved the engine of his car to coax an orgasm from her made her crave another just like it. It was hard to keep her cool when her brain twisted anything and everything to appear sexy.

This is how most of their car trips alone together were spent. They weren’t always sexual, but Billy’s right hand was almost always on a part of Maeven’s body. It was his way of telling her “I’m right here. You’re safe. I promise.”

Maeven had the strong urge to close her thighs shut and wiggle her hips but mustered all the self-control she had within her to stay on task. She moved her hand over Billy’s and asked him: “What happened last night?” 

Billy shifted his focus from the road, blinking away the rush of the high he always got from the feeling of speeding on an open road.

“What?”

“Last night? When you came into my room?”

His expression didn’t change, as if she said nothing and he was still waiting to listen to her. But he did, glancing at her like she was on display.

“You don’t remember?”

“No. I woke up with new cuts, wet hair, and a wet pillow between my legs.”

Billy chuckled out a cloud of smoke as the cigarette hung from his sly smile. When he saw that she wasn’t joking or flirting, he laughed again

“Damn, Dollface, you seriously have no idea?”

Why did he have to play these games with her at the most inconvenient times?

“Tolerating him is the least you could do to thank him for taking care of you,” her internal voice reminded her. Maeven felt that she wasn’t in any position to criticize his quirks. He’d given her the same courtesy in the past.

            "I don't remember cutting myself up or showering. I sure as hell don't remember fucking my pillow,” she recounted, the missing time and context from her blackouts taunting and haunting her. She despised this. She wanted it gone, for it to be over.

“Woah, woah, calm down there, Iron Maeven,” Billy cooed at her, bringing his hand underneath Maeven’s arm to lace their fingers together, rubbing the top of her hand as he rested them atop the clutch. “I was giving you a massage, and you started humping my hand when I got down to your thighs.”

“What?”

“Yeah, you changed your mind and then climbed on top of me and we messed around for a bit. You really don’t remember that?”

That didn’t sound like Maeven. She could get caught up in the heat of the moment, sure. Then again, she apparently did a lot of things that were considered ‘out of character’ during her blackouts. Billy wasn’t the only witness to it. Her parents, sister, and friends saw it happen, too. Maeven would never forgive herself now that Max saw her so unhinged.

“You disgusting little whore. Do you really have that poor self-control?”

“No. . .I don’t.”

“I went to go and use the bathroom and get some water, and when I came back, you were cutting. I gave you one of your chill pills and helped you clean up in the shower. You’re the one who asked me to put the pillow there.”

Everything fit together perfectly. Again, she couldn’t understand why she would do these things. But if she was told a year prior that she’d eventually become a drug, self-harm, and sex addict, Maeven would’ve laughed it off. If there was one thing she learned after her parent’s divorce, it was that nothing ever really went a hundred percent according to plan.

“All you do is take. You take his love for granted and then you mutilate your body to take more of his attention.”

At the feeling over her cheeks wettening with tears, Maeven gave herself another slap across the face. She didn’t deserve to be crying. She did this to herself. As she moved her hand to slap herself again, Billy gripped her wrist to stop her. When he noticed her breathing getting heavier, he let go to lovingly stroke her fiery red locks, cradling her head in his palm.

“Hey, it’s okay. It's okay, Doll. It’s not your fault,” he cooed. “I’m sorry, I should’ve noticed something was wrong.”

Maeven still couldn’t decide if his understanding made her feel better or worse. He was so good to her, and he didn’t deserve for her to drag him down with her.

“No, no. It’s not your fault, either,” she said, wiping her eyes. “You were helping me. I’m sorry you had to do that again.”

Billy tenderly gripped her chin and turned her head to face him.

“I’ll never get tired of taking care of you, Maevey. Y’know that right?”

“He’s lying to you.”

She wanted to agree with it, to protest out loud. But his baby blues almost never failed to put her at ease. So, instead, she just nodded.

“Good. I love you,” he said, turning his attention back to the road. Maeven blinked away the remaining tears in her eyes, slipping her skirt back down as she fidgeted with her gloves

“I love you, too,” she muttered back, but she said it more as a courtesy to herself as if she could convince herself to believe Billy’s words.

“He hates you, you stupid insane bitch. You know he does. He fucking hates you.”

The ride was silent until Hawkins came into view. They figured they’d get used to the long-ish drive, and the fact that their new ‘home’ had more hills and trees than buildings. Today was not that day. But maybe it would come soon. Maeven clutched her backpack in her lap, poking at the softness of her beloved plush toy shoved to the bottom temporarily soothed her nerves.

“By the way, do you know what happened to my night light?”

Maeven wanted to mention it before she forgot again. Billy choked out a smoke-filled laugh before throwing the butt of his cigarette out the window. She wished he’d stop doing that.

“Your what?”

“The light behind my mirror? It was there last night, and now it’s gone,” she said, immediately regretting overexplaining. Billy didn’t like it when she talked to him like that; like he was stupid. He pushed his foot a little harder on the gas, causing Maeven to be pushed back in her seat by the sudden increase in speed.

“You really shouldn’t have that shit, anymore, Maevey, you’re almost eighteen. I didn’t do anything with it. Why would you think that? You’d really think I’d steal from you?”

Maeven’s heart sped up as her leg bounced instinctively. 

“No, no, no. It’s not that.”

“Keep your fucking mouth shut, bitch. Don’t push your luck.”

“You probably just got tired of it, finally. If you were that out of it that you can’t remember anything, who knows what else you could’ve done?”

Sure, it was kind of silly and childish, but the night light helped her feel comfortable and safe. She never got tired of that light. It had been in her room since she was an infant. She wanted to say ‘no;’ to tell him that didn’t sound like her. But she couldn’t say that about herself. Maeven couldn’t say anything about herself with confidence, anymore.

“You’re right. You’re right. I’m sorry,” she said. Billy forgave and forgot her little rude outbursts. Maeven didn’t. She never forgot or forgave herself. Her heart continued to beat and her leg continued to bounce as she squeezed the bottom of her backpack. Even though she shouldn’t, she felt the need to punish herself. It all depended on if the day got better or worse. And maybe Billy would get to it before she did.

“You shouldn’t have asked him about it. You pissed him off. You’re gonna have to make it up to him now, y’know? The only reason he’s stayed this long is that he feels sorry for you. And besides, you only really have one thing to give him.”

. . .

A/N: This was more of a filler chapter than anything. I'm still getting a feel for how Maeven's brain is wired and how her trauma affects her everyday life. Don't worry. Next chapter, we'll be diving into meeting all the other characters. As always, I love hearing your thoughts down below!

The Spitfire Curse Taglist:

@yaidothat

Let me know if you'd like to be added!

[shattered-starsxx]

Blanche Karagiannis,

full name: Blanche Désirée Karagiannis

entomology: [ blanche - From a medieval French nickname meaning "white, fair-coloured". This word and its cognates in other languages are ultimately derived from the Germanic word *blankaz. An early bearer was the 12th-century Blanca of Navarre, the wife of Sancho III of Castile. Her granddaughter of the same name married Louis VIII of France, with the result that the name became more common in France. ] ☆ [ désirée - French form of Desiderata. In part it is directly from the French word meaning "desired, wished". ] ☆ [ karagiannis - From the Greek prefix καρα (kara) meaning "black, dark" (of Turkish origin) and the given name Giannis. ] 

nicknames / aliases: CLARA ( her stage / performer name - Feminine form of the Late Latin name Clarus, which meant "clear, bright, famous". The name Clarus was borne by a few early saints. The feminine form was popularized by the 13th-century Saint Clare of Assisi (called Chiara in Italian), a friend and follower of Saint Francis, who left her wealthy family to found the order of nuns known as the Poor Clares. )

date of birth: September 13th.

date of death: March 24th, 1808. ( 200+ )

gender: female

orientation: pansexual

species: vampire, belle morte's line ( unknowingly sired )

residence: salacity ( malvada ), usa

face claim: jessica chastain

ancestry: french / greek

height & weight: 5'4", 130 lbs.

hair & eye color: red & green ( her eyes darken with red irises after she's freshly fed. )

tattoos: –

piercings: —

occupation: lounge club singer

vehicle(s): –

nationality: American ( for at least the last fifteen years anyway, previously she lived in Greece but had to leave as her unaging was starting to get more and more noticed. )

ethnicity: Caucasian

POWERS / ABILITIES / WEAKNESSES:

Siren's song: The user is capable of emitting astonishingly beautiful and enchanting singing voice that is capable of summoning/luring anyone who hears it to come towards the singer or to try to reach the source of the song, no matter what dangerous obstacles are in the way of the path (it may even just mesmerize a subject or make them fall in love). No matter what anyone who hears it becomes entrance willing to do whatever the user wants and commands. Immortality Superhuman Strength Superhuman Speed Heightened Senses Accelerated Healing Psychic Abilities - can also hypnotize using her voice, gaze, and aura to excite or calm humans. Ardeur - Allows her to gain power (and feed) from lust and sex.

Weaknesses:

sensitivity to daylight, especially in the afternoon when the sun is at it's highest and hottest. ( she can however go out in the daytime if there's full cloyd coverage due to rain / storms. ) white oak stakes ( it's a tree, enough said, but they're not native to malvada so these are RARE. ) decapitation, self explanatory. fire, self explanatory.

Refers to Mona Loveless as "Madame Mona".

Spent three years in St. Tropez, France so she acquired a French accent ( and it can be heard the most when she's talking to Mona or singing. )

-> in association with: @ruote666, @occulphic, @stealhorse

[newcityistanbul]

Historic way of seeing Paris

That is the historic way of seeing Paris. But how many thousands of our tourists believe they know Paris as well as London, and have exhausted all its sights, and hurry through Paris, and yet they could not tell where the Convention had its hall, or how it came there, or where the bones of king and queen and the other victims of the guillotine were laid, and why they were thrown in that spot, or where the guillotine stood: nor have they seen the cells where Marie Antoinette and Danton, Vergniaud and the Girondins passed their last hours — or could distinguish the parts of the Louvre, or tell for whom the many L’s and H’s and M’s are inscribed — or where our Henry v. Lived when he was ruler of France after Azincourt, and where was the Palace of St. Louis, or of Philip Augustus, or Clovis, or the original Lutetia of the Parisii.

Let us try to group the record of Paris in historic epochs and in their right chronological order.

It is easy to realise the Latetia of the Romans, the first Gaulish settlement. Loukhteith, its Celtic name, is said to mean ‘the stronghold in the morass,’—not ‘mud-city,’ as Carlyle calls it, — nearly the same as Llyn-dyn, or London, which means the Lake-town. The island (or eyot as we say in the Thames), in the Seine a little below the junction of the Marne, where the Bievre flows into the Seine, formed an excellent fastness. Caesar has given a vivid account of the siege of Paris in 52 B.C., and from the top of the Pantheon we can stand and trace the campaign of Labienus, as told by the mighty general of Rome. The historic record of Paris thus begins 1946 years ago. It was a city of some, but not of great importance in the Roman Empire private tour istanbul, its most famous incident being that it was the favourite residence of the Emperor Julian in the middle of the fourth century. In a well-known passage in his Misopogon, he speaks of his dear Lutetia, of its soft and delightful climate, and the richness of its vines.

There is something strangely suggestive in the association of Paris with the brilliant, philosophical, wrongheaded young Caesar, with his paradoxical ideals, romantic adventures, and tragic end.

Roman remains called Les Thermes

It is well known that the grand Roman remains called Les Thermes, adjoining the Cluny Museum, belonged to the palace of the Caesars, the great hall forming the frigidarinm of the Baths, and the rest of the foundations have been fairly made out. Other Roman remains are the altar found under Notre Dame, many altars and tombs, both Pagan and Christian, a large collection of objects in the Carnavalet Museum, some remains of city walls of the fourth century, the famous inscription of the naiitae or watermen’s gild of Paris, two aqueducts, that of Arcueil on the south near Bicetre, and that of Chaillot near the Palais Royal, an amphitheatre, east of the Pantheon near the R. Monge, a second palace beneath the Conciergerie, several cemeteries and tombs, in the R. Vivienne on the north, and also in the south, a Roman camp, a factory of pottery, a mass of antiquities at Montmartre, the Mons Martis, I think, not the Mons Marty mm.

This forms a mass of Roman antiquities which together raise Paris to the rank of importance amongst the scanty remnants of ancient civilisation in Northern Europe. In the Thermes we have the Roman Louvre, in the altar of Jupiter the antitype of Notre Dame, in the cemetery of the R. Vivienne the Roman Phe-la-Chaise, in the foundations below the Palais de Justice, the Roman Hotel de Villc, in the Parvis de Notre Dame perhaps the Roman Forum, the predecessor of the Place de Grlve.

There is seldom to be met so striking a bit of city topography as the long history of evolution in the Cite, or island, of Paris. First, it was a group of palisaded eyots in a broad river spreading out on both sides into swamps — the river stronghold of a tribe called by the Romans Parisii, a word possibly connected with Bar, which is thought to signify a frontier (Bar-sur-Aube, etc.). Then this river stronghold is joined to the mainland by two bridges not in a straight line but at opposite ends of the island and both doubtless defended; it is next a Roman city, ultimately walled, with its central temple, its municipality, its quays, and some outlying buildings, the Imperial Palace, the amphitheatre, cemeteries, camp, and the like, on the mainland, both north and south: one bridge, now the Pont au change, opening into the Place du Chdtelet; the smaller bridge, now Petit Pont, higher up the river over the narrow arm, at the end of the R. St. Jacques.

[istanbuldaybg]

Historic way of seeing Paris

That is the historic way of seeing Paris. But how many thousands of our tourists believe they know Paris as well as London, and have exhausted all its sights, and hurry through Paris, and yet they could not tell where the Convention had its hall, or how it came there, or where the bones of king and queen and the other victims of the guillotine were laid, and why they were thrown in that spot, or where the guillotine stood: nor have they seen the cells where Marie Antoinette and Danton, Vergniaud and the Girondins passed their last hours — or could distinguish the parts of the Louvre, or tell for whom the many L’s and H’s and M’s are inscribed — or where our Henry v. Lived when he was ruler of France after Azincourt, and where was the Palace of St. Louis, or of Philip Augustus, or Clovis, or the original Lutetia of the Parisii.

Let us try to group the record of Paris in historic epochs and in their right chronological order.

It is easy to realise the Latetia of the Romans, the first Gaulish settlement. Loukhteith, its Celtic name, is said to mean ‘the stronghold in the morass,’—not ‘mud-city,’ as Carlyle calls it, — nearly the same as Llyn-dyn, or London, which means the Lake-town. The island (or eyot as we say in the Thames), in the Seine a little below the junction of the Marne, where the Bievre flows into the Seine, formed an excellent fastness. Caesar has given a vivid account of the siege of Paris in 52 B.C., and from the top of the Pantheon we can stand and trace the campaign of Labienus, as told by the mighty general of Rome. The historic record of Paris thus begins 1946 years ago. It was a city of some, but not of great importance in the Roman Empire private tour istanbul, its most famous incident being that it was the favourite residence of the Emperor Julian in the middle of the fourth century. In a well-known passage in his Misopogon, he speaks of his dear Lutetia, of its soft and delightful climate, and the richness of its vines.

There is something strangely suggestive in the association of Paris with the brilliant, philosophical, wrongheaded young Caesar, with his paradoxical ideals, romantic adventures, and tragic end.

Roman remains called Les Thermes

It is well known that the grand Roman remains called Les Thermes, adjoining the Cluny Museum, belonged to the palace of the Caesars, the great hall forming the frigidarinm of the Baths, and the rest of the foundations have been fairly made out. Other Roman remains are the altar found under Notre Dame, many altars and tombs, both Pagan and Christian, a large collection of objects in the Carnavalet Museum, some remains of city walls of the fourth century, the famous inscription of the naiitae or watermen’s gild of Paris, two aqueducts, that of Arcueil on the south near Bicetre, and that of Chaillot near the Palais Royal, an amphitheatre, east of the Pantheon near the R. Monge, a second palace beneath the Conciergerie, several cemeteries and tombs, in the R. Vivienne on the north, and also in the south, a Roman camp, a factory of pottery, a mass of antiquities at Montmartre, the Mons Martis, I think, not the Mons Marty mm.

This forms a mass of Roman antiquities which together raise Paris to the rank of importance amongst the scanty remnants of ancient civilisation in Northern Europe. In the Thermes we have the Roman Louvre, in the altar of Jupiter the antitype of Notre Dame, in the cemetery of the R. Vivienne the Roman Phe-la-Chaise, in the foundations below the Palais de Justice, the Roman Hotel de Villc, in the Parvis de Notre Dame perhaps the Roman Forum, the predecessor of the Place de Grlve.

There is seldom to be met so striking a bit of city topography as the long history of evolution in the Cite, or island, of Paris. First, it was a group of palisaded eyots in a broad river spreading out on both sides into swamps — the river stronghold of a tribe called by the Romans Parisii, a word possibly connected with Bar, which is thought to signify a frontier (Bar-sur-Aube, etc.). Then this river stronghold is joined to the mainland by two bridges not in a straight line but at opposite ends of the island and both doubtless defended; it is next a Roman city, ultimately walled, with its central temple, its municipality, its quays, and some outlying buildings, the Imperial Palace, the amphitheatre, cemeteries, camp, and the like, on the mainland, both north and south: one bridge, now the Pont au change, opening into the Place du Chdtelet; the smaller bridge, now Petit Pont, higher up the river over the narrow arm, at the end of the R. St. Jacques.

[istanbultulip]

Historic way of seeing Paris

That is the historic way of seeing Paris. But how many thousands of our tourists believe they know Paris as well as London, and have exhausted all its sights, and hurry through Paris, and yet they could not tell where the Convention had its hall, or how it came there, or where the bones of king and queen and the other victims of the guillotine were laid, and why they were thrown in that spot, or where the guillotine stood: nor have they seen the cells where Marie Antoinette and Danton, Vergniaud and the Girondins passed their last hours — or could distinguish the parts of the Louvre, or tell for whom the many L’s and H’s and M’s are inscribed — or where our Henry v. Lived when he was ruler of France after Azincourt, and where was the Palace of St. Louis, or of Philip Augustus, or Clovis, or the original Lutetia of the Parisii.

Let us try to group the record of Paris in historic epochs and in their right chronological order.

It is easy to realise the Latetia of the Romans, the first Gaulish settlement. Loukhteith, its Celtic name, is said to mean ‘the stronghold in the morass,’—not ‘mud-city,’ as Carlyle calls it, — nearly the same as Llyn-dyn, or London, which means the Lake-town. The island (or eyot as we say in the Thames), in the Seine a little below the junction of the Marne, where the Bievre flows into the Seine, formed an excellent fastness. Caesar has given a vivid account of the siege of Paris in 52 B.C., and from the top of the Pantheon we can stand and trace the campaign of Labienus, as told by the mighty general of Rome. The historic record of Paris thus begins 1946 years ago. It was a city of some, but not of great importance in the Roman Empire private tour istanbul, its most famous incident being that it was the favourite residence of the Emperor Julian in the middle of the fourth century. In a well-known passage in his Misopogon, he speaks of his dear Lutetia, of its soft and delightful climate, and the richness of its vines.

There is something strangely suggestive in the association of Paris with the brilliant, philosophical, wrongheaded young Caesar, with his paradoxical ideals, romantic adventures, and tragic end.

Roman remains called Les Thermes

It is well known that the grand Roman remains called Les Thermes, adjoining the Cluny Museum, belonged to the palace of the Caesars, the great hall forming the frigidarinm of the Baths, and the rest of the foundations have been fairly made out. Other Roman remains are the altar found under Notre Dame, many altars and tombs, both Pagan and Christian, a large collection of objects in the Carnavalet Museum, some remains of city walls of the fourth century, the famous inscription of the naiitae or watermen’s gild of Paris, two aqueducts, that of Arcueil on the south near Bicetre, and that of Chaillot near the Palais Royal, an amphitheatre, east of the Pantheon near the R. Monge, a second palace beneath the Conciergerie, several cemeteries and tombs, in the R. Vivienne on the north, and also in the south, a Roman camp, a factory of pottery, a mass of antiquities at Montmartre, the Mons Martis, I think, not the Mons Marty mm.

This forms a mass of Roman antiquities which together raise Paris to the rank of importance amongst the scanty remnants of ancient civilisation in Northern Europe. In the Thermes we have the Roman Louvre, in the altar of Jupiter the antitype of Notre Dame, in the cemetery of the R. Vivienne the Roman Phe-la-Chaise, in the foundations below the Palais de Justice, the Roman Hotel de Villc, in the Parvis de Notre Dame perhaps the Roman Forum, the predecessor of the Place de Grlve.

There is seldom to be met so striking a bit of city topography as the long history of evolution in the Cite, or island, of Paris. First, it was a group of palisaded eyots in a broad river spreading out on both sides into swamps — the river stronghold of a tribe called by the Romans Parisii, a word possibly connected with Bar, which is thought to signify a frontier (Bar-sur-Aube, etc.). Then this river stronghold is joined to the mainland by two bridges not in a straight line but at opposite ends of the island and both doubtless defended; it is next a Roman city, ultimately walled, with its central temple, its municipality, its quays, and some outlying buildings, the Imperial Palace, the amphitheatre, cemeteries, camp, and the like, on the mainland, both north and south: one bridge, now the Pont au change, opening into the Place du Chdtelet; the smaller bridge, now Petit Pont, higher up the river over the narrow arm, at the end of the R. St. Jacques.

[staristan]

Historic way of seeing Paris

That is the historic way of seeing Paris. But how many thousands of our tourists believe they know Paris as well as London, and have exhausted all its sights, and hurry through Paris, and yet they could not tell where the Convention had its hall, or how it came there, or where the bones of king and queen and the other victims of the guillotine were laid, and why they were thrown in that spot, or where the guillotine stood: nor have they seen the cells where Marie Antoinette and Danton, Vergniaud and the Girondins passed their last hours — or could distinguish the parts of the Louvre, or tell for whom the many L’s and H’s and M’s are inscribed — or where our Henry v. Lived when he was ruler of France after Azincourt, and where was the Palace of St. Louis, or of Philip Augustus, or Clovis, or the original Lutetia of the Parisii.

Let us try to group the record of Paris in historic epochs and in their right chronological order.

It is easy to realise the Latetia of the Romans, the first Gaulish settlement. Loukhteith, its Celtic name, is said to mean ‘the stronghold in the morass,’—not ‘mud-city,’ as Carlyle calls it, — nearly the same as Llyn-dyn, or London, which means the Lake-town. The island (or eyot as we say in the Thames), in the Seine a little below the junction of the Marne, where the Bievre flows into the Seine, formed an excellent fastness. Caesar has given a vivid account of the siege of Paris in 52 B.C., and from the top of the Pantheon we can stand and trace the campaign of Labienus, as told by the mighty general of Rome. The historic record of Paris thus begins 1946 years ago. It was a city of some, but not of great importance in the Roman Empire private tour istanbul, its most famous incident being that it was the favourite residence of the Emperor Julian in the middle of the fourth century. In a well-known passage in his Misopogon, he speaks of his dear Lutetia, of its soft and delightful climate, and the richness of its vines.

There is something strangely suggestive in the association of Paris with the brilliant, philosophical, wrongheaded young Caesar, with his paradoxical ideals, romantic adventures, and tragic end.

Roman remains called Les Thermes

It is well known that the grand Roman remains called Les Thermes, adjoining the Cluny Museum, belonged to the palace of the Caesars, the great hall forming the frigidarinm of the Baths, and the rest of the foundations have been fairly made out. Other Roman remains are the altar found under Notre Dame, many altars and tombs, both Pagan and Christian, a large collection of objects in the Carnavalet Museum, some remains of city walls of the fourth century, the famous inscription of the naiitae or watermen’s gild of Paris, two aqueducts, that of Arcueil on the south near Bicetre, and that of Chaillot near the Palais Royal, an amphitheatre, east of the Pantheon near the R. Monge, a second palace beneath the Conciergerie, several cemeteries and tombs, in the R. Vivienne on the north, and also in the south, a Roman camp, a factory of pottery, a mass of antiquities at Montmartre, the Mons Martis, I think, not the Mons Marty mm.

This forms a mass of Roman antiquities which together raise Paris to the rank of importance amongst the scanty remnants of ancient civilisation in Northern Europe. In the Thermes we have the Roman Louvre, in the altar of Jupiter the antitype of Notre Dame, in the cemetery of the R. Vivienne the Roman Phe-la-Chaise, in the foundations below the Palais de Justice, the Roman Hotel de Villc, in the Parvis de Notre Dame perhaps the Roman Forum, the predecessor of the Place de Grlve.

There is seldom to be met so striking a bit of city topography as the long history of evolution in the Cite, or island, of Paris. First, it was a group of palisaded eyots in a broad river spreading out on both sides into swamps — the river stronghold of a tribe called by the Romans Parisii, a word possibly connected with Bar, which is thought to signify a frontier (Bar-sur-Aube, etc.). Then this river stronghold is joined to the mainland by two bridges not in a straight line but at opposite ends of the island and both doubtless defended; it is next a Roman city, ultimately walled, with its central temple, its municipality, its quays, and some outlying buildings, the Imperial Palace, the amphitheatre, cemeteries, camp, and the like, on the mainland, both north and south: one bridge, now the Pont au change, opening into the Place du Chdtelet; the smaller bridge, now Petit Pont, higher up the river over the narrow arm, at the end of the R. St. Jacques.

[hitistanbul]

Historic way of seeing Paris

That is the historic way of seeing Paris. But how many thousands of our tourists believe they know Paris as well as London, and have exhausted all its sights, and hurry through Paris, and yet they could not tell where the Convention had its hall, or how it came there, or where the bones of king and queen and the other victims of the guillotine were laid, and why they were thrown in that spot, or where the guillotine stood: nor have they seen the cells where Marie Antoinette and Danton, Vergniaud and the Girondins passed their last hours — or could distinguish the parts of the Louvre, or tell for whom the many L’s and H’s and M’s are inscribed — or where our Henry v. Lived when he was ruler of France after Azincourt, and where was the Palace of St. Louis, or of Philip Augustus, or Clovis, or the original Lutetia of the Parisii.

Let us try to group the record of Paris in historic epochs and in their right chronological order.

It is easy to realise the Latetia of the Romans, the first Gaulish settlement. Loukhteith, its Celtic name, is said to mean ‘the stronghold in the morass,’—not ‘mud-city,’ as Carlyle calls it, — nearly the same as Llyn-dyn, or London, which means the Lake-town. The island (or eyot as we say in the Thames), in the Seine a little below the junction of the Marne, where the Bievre flows into the Seine, formed an excellent fastness. Caesar has given a vivid account of the siege of Paris in 52 B.C., and from the top of the Pantheon we can stand and trace the campaign of Labienus, as told by the mighty general of Rome. The historic record of Paris thus begins 1946 years ago. It was a city of some, but not of great importance in the Roman Empire private tour istanbul, its most famous incident being that it was the favourite residence of the Emperor Julian in the middle of the fourth century. In a well-known passage in his Misopogon, he speaks of his dear Lutetia, of its soft and delightful climate, and the richness of its vines.

There is something strangely suggestive in the association of Paris with the brilliant, philosophical, wrongheaded young Caesar, with his paradoxical ideals, romantic adventures, and tragic end.

Roman remains called Les Thermes

It is well known that the grand Roman remains called Les Thermes, adjoining the Cluny Museum, belonged to the palace of the Caesars, the great hall forming the frigidarinm of the Baths, and the rest of the foundations have been fairly made out. Other Roman remains are the altar found under Notre Dame, many altars and tombs, both Pagan and Christian, a large collection of objects in the Carnavalet Museum, some remains of city walls of the fourth century, the famous inscription of the naiitae or watermen’s gild of Paris, two aqueducts, that of Arcueil on the south near Bicetre, and that of Chaillot near the Palais Royal, an amphitheatre, east of the Pantheon near the R. Monge, a second palace beneath the Conciergerie, several cemeteries and tombs, in the R. Vivienne on the north, and also in the south, a Roman camp, a factory of pottery, a mass of antiquities at Montmartre, the Mons Martis, I think, not the Mons Marty mm.

This forms a mass of Roman antiquities which together raise Paris to the rank of importance amongst the scanty remnants of ancient civilisation in Northern Europe. In the Thermes we have the Roman Louvre, in the altar of Jupiter the antitype of Notre Dame, in the cemetery of the R. Vivienne the Roman Phe-la-Chaise, in the foundations below the Palais de Justice, the Roman Hotel de Villc, in the Parvis de Notre Dame perhaps the Roman Forum, the predecessor of the Place de Grlve.

There is seldom to be met so striking a bit of city topography as the long history of evolution in the Cite, or island, of Paris. First, it was a group of palisaded eyots in a broad river spreading out on both sides into swamps — the river stronghold of a tribe called by the Romans Parisii, a word possibly connected with Bar, which is thought to signify a frontier (Bar-sur-Aube, etc.). Then this river stronghold is joined to the mainland by two bridges not in a straight line but at opposite ends of the island and both doubtless defended; it is next a Roman city, ultimately walled, with its central temple, its municipality, its quays, and some outlying buildings, the Imperial Palace, the amphitheatre, cemeteries, camp, and the like, on the mainland, both north and south: one bridge, now the Pont au change, opening into the Place du Chdtelet; the smaller bridge, now Petit Pont, higher up the river over the narrow arm, at the end of the R. St. Jacques.

[istanbulfoodtour]

Historic way of seeing Paris

That is the historic way of seeing Paris. But how many thousands of our tourists believe they know Paris as well as London, and have exhausted all its sights, and hurry through Paris, and yet they could not tell where the Convention had its hall, or how it came there, or where the bones of king and queen and the other victims of the guillotine were laid, and why they were thrown in that spot, or where the guillotine stood: nor have they seen the cells where Marie Antoinette and Danton, Vergniaud and the Girondins passed their last hours — or could distinguish the parts of the Louvre, or tell for whom the many L’s and H’s and M’s are inscribed — or where our Henry v. Lived when he was ruler of France after Azincourt, and where was the Palace of St. Louis, or of Philip Augustus, or Clovis, or the original Lutetia of the Parisii.

Let us try to group the record of Paris in historic epochs and in their right chronological order.

It is easy to realise the Latetia of the Romans, the first Gaulish settlement. Loukhteith, its Celtic name, is said to mean ‘the stronghold in the morass,’—not ‘mud-city,’ as Carlyle calls it, — nearly the same as Llyn-dyn, or London, which means the Lake-town. The island (or eyot as we say in the Thames), in the Seine a little below the junction of the Marne, where the Bievre flows into the Seine, formed an excellent fastness. Caesar has given a vivid account of the siege of Paris in 52 B.C., and from the top of the Pantheon we can stand and trace the campaign of Labienus, as told by the mighty general of Rome. The historic record of Paris thus begins 1946 years ago. It was a city of some, but not of great importance in the Roman Empire private tour istanbul, its most famous incident being that it was the favourite residence of the Emperor Julian in the middle of the fourth century. In a well-known passage in his Misopogon, he speaks of his dear Lutetia, of its soft and delightful climate, and the richness of its vines.

There is something strangely suggestive in the association of Paris with the brilliant, philosophical, wrongheaded young Caesar, with his paradoxical ideals, romantic adventures, and tragic end.

Roman remains called Les Thermes

It is well known that the grand Roman remains called Les Thermes, adjoining the Cluny Museum, belonged to the palace of the Caesars, the great hall forming the frigidarinm of the Baths, and the rest of the foundations have been fairly made out. Other Roman remains are the altar found under Notre Dame, many altars and tombs, both Pagan and Christian, a large collection of objects in the Carnavalet Museum, some remains of city walls of the fourth century, the famous inscription of the naiitae or watermen’s gild of Paris, two aqueducts, that of Arcueil on the south near Bicetre, and that of Chaillot near the Palais Royal, an amphitheatre, east of the Pantheon near the R. Monge, a second palace beneath the Conciergerie, several cemeteries and tombs, in the R. Vivienne on the north, and also in the south, a Roman camp, a factory of pottery, a mass of antiquities at Montmartre, the Mons Martis, I think, not the Mons Marty mm.

This forms a mass of Roman antiquities which together raise Paris to the rank of importance amongst the scanty remnants of ancient civilisation in Northern Europe. In the Thermes we have the Roman Louvre, in the altar of Jupiter the antitype of Notre Dame, in the cemetery of the R. Vivienne the Roman Phe-la-Chaise, in the foundations below the Palais de Justice, the Roman Hotel de Villc, in the Parvis de Notre Dame perhaps the Roman Forum, the predecessor of the Place de Grlve.

There is seldom to be met so striking a bit of city topography as the long history of evolution in the Cite, or island, of Paris. First, it was a group of palisaded eyots in a broad river spreading out on both sides into swamps — the river stronghold of a tribe called by the Romans Parisii, a word possibly connected with Bar, which is thought to signify a frontier (Bar-sur-Aube, etc.). Then this river stronghold is joined to the mainland by two bridges not in a straight line but at opposite ends of the island and both doubtless defended; it is next a Roman city, ultimately walled, with its central temple, its municipality, its quays, and some outlying buildings, the Imperial Palace, the amphitheatre, cemeteries, camp, and the like, on the mainland, both north and south: one bridge, now the Pont au change, opening into the Place du Chdtelet; the smaller bridge, now Petit Pont, higher up the river over the narrow arm, at the end of the R. St. Jacques.

[istanbuldefinition]

Historic way of seeing Paris

That is the historic way of seeing Paris. But how many thousands of our tourists believe they know Paris as well as London, and have exhausted all its sights, and hurry through Paris, and yet they could not tell where the Convention had its hall, or how it came there, or where the bones of king and queen and the other victims of the guillotine were laid, and why they were thrown in that spot, or where the guillotine stood: nor have they seen the cells where Marie Antoinette and Danton, Vergniaud and the Girondins passed their last hours — or could distinguish the parts of the Louvre, or tell for whom the many L’s and H’s and M’s are inscribed — or where our Henry v. Lived when he was ruler of France after Azincourt, and where was the Palace of St. Louis, or of Philip Augustus, or Clovis, or the original Lutetia of the Parisii.

Let us try to group the record of Paris in historic epochs and in their right chronological order.

It is easy to realise the Latetia of the Romans, the first Gaulish settlement. Loukhteith, its Celtic name, is said to mean ‘the stronghold in the morass,’—not ‘mud-city,’ as Carlyle calls it, — nearly the same as Llyn-dyn, or London, which means the Lake-town. The island (or eyot as we say in the Thames), in the Seine a little below the junction of the Marne, where the Bievre flows into the Seine, formed an excellent fastness. Caesar has given a vivid account of the siege of Paris in 52 B.C., and from the top of the Pantheon we can stand and trace the campaign of Labienus, as told by the mighty general of Rome. The historic record of Paris thus begins 1946 years ago. It was a city of some, but not of great importance in the Roman Empire private tour istanbul, its most famous incident being that it was the favourite residence of the Emperor Julian in the middle of the fourth century. In a well-known passage in his Misopogon, he speaks of his dear Lutetia, of its soft and delightful climate, and the richness of its vines.

There is something strangely suggestive in the association of Paris with the brilliant, philosophical, wrongheaded young Caesar, with his paradoxical ideals, romantic adventures, and tragic end.

Roman remains called Les Thermes

It is well known that the grand Roman remains called Les Thermes, adjoining the Cluny Museum, belonged to the palace of the Caesars, the great hall forming the frigidarinm of the Baths, and the rest of the foundations have been fairly made out. Other Roman remains are the altar found under Notre Dame, many altars and tombs, both Pagan and Christian, a large collection of objects in the Carnavalet Museum, some remains of city walls of the fourth century, the famous inscription of the naiitae or watermen’s gild of Paris, two aqueducts, that of Arcueil on the south near Bicetre, and that of Chaillot near the Palais Royal, an amphitheatre, east of the Pantheon near the R. Monge, a second palace beneath the Conciergerie, several cemeteries and tombs, in the R. Vivienne on the north, and also in the south, a Roman camp, a factory of pottery, a mass of antiquities at Montmartre, the Mons Martis, I think, not the Mons Marty mm.

This forms a mass of Roman antiquities which together raise Paris to the rank of importance amongst the scanty remnants of ancient civilisation in Northern Europe. In the Thermes we have the Roman Louvre, in the altar of Jupiter the antitype of Notre Dame, in the cemetery of the R. Vivienne the Roman Phe-la-Chaise, in the foundations below the Palais de Justice, the Roman Hotel de Villc, in the Parvis de Notre Dame perhaps the Roman Forum, the predecessor of the Place de Grlve.

There is seldom to be met so striking a bit of city topography as the long history of evolution in the Cite, or island, of Paris. First, it was a group of palisaded eyots in a broad river spreading out on both sides into swamps — the river stronghold of a tribe called by the Romans Parisii, a word possibly connected with Bar, which is thought to signify a frontier (Bar-sur-Aube, etc.). Then this river stronghold is joined to the mainland by two bridges not in a straight line but at opposite ends of the island and both doubtless defended; it is next a Roman city, ultimately walled, with its central temple, its municipality, its quays, and some outlying buildings, the Imperial Palace, the amphitheatre, cemeteries, camp, and the like, on the mainland, both north and south: one bridge, now the Pont au change, opening into the Place du Chdtelet; the smaller bridge, now Petit Pont, higher up the river over the narrow arm, at the end of the R. St. Jacques.

[grandbazaarist]

Historic way of seeing Paris

That is the historic way of seeing Paris. But how many thousands of our tourists believe they know Paris as well as London, and have exhausted all its sights, and hurry through Paris, and yet they could not tell where the Convention had its hall, or how it came there, or where the bones of king and queen and the other victims of the guillotine were laid, and why they were thrown in that spot, or where the guillotine stood: nor have they seen the cells where Marie Antoinette and Danton, Vergniaud and the Girondins passed their last hours — or could distinguish the parts of the Louvre, or tell for whom the many L’s and H’s and M’s are inscribed — or where our Henry v. Lived when he was ruler of France after Azincourt, and where was the Palace of St. Louis, or of Philip Augustus, or Clovis, or the original Lutetia of the Parisii.

Let us try to group the record of Paris in historic epochs and in their right chronological order.

It is easy to realise the Latetia of the Romans, the first Gaulish settlement. Loukhteith, its Celtic name, is said to mean ‘the stronghold in the morass,’—not ‘mud-city,’ as Carlyle calls it, — nearly the same as Llyn-dyn, or London, which means the Lake-town. The island (or eyot as we say in the Thames), in the Seine a little below the junction of the Marne, where the Bievre flows into the Seine, formed an excellent fastness. Caesar has given a vivid account of the siege of Paris in 52 B.C., and from the top of the Pantheon we can stand and trace the campaign of Labienus, as told by the mighty general of Rome. The historic record of Paris thus begins 1946 years ago. It was a city of some, but not of great importance in the Roman Empire private tour istanbul, its most famous incident being that it was the favourite residence of the Emperor Julian in the middle of the fourth century. In a well-known passage in his Misopogon, he speaks of his dear Lutetia, of its soft and delightful climate, and the richness of its vines.

There is something strangely suggestive in the association of Paris with the brilliant, philosophical, wrongheaded young Caesar, with his paradoxical ideals, romantic adventures, and tragic end.

Roman remains called Les Thermes

It is well known that the grand Roman remains called Les Thermes, adjoining the Cluny Museum, belonged to the palace of the Caesars, the great hall forming the frigidarinm of the Baths, and the rest of the foundations have been fairly made out. Other Roman remains are the altar found under Notre Dame, many altars and tombs, both Pagan and Christian, a large collection of objects in the Carnavalet Museum, some remains of city walls of the fourth century, the famous inscription of the naiitae or watermen’s gild of Paris, two aqueducts, that of Arcueil on the south near Bicetre, and that of Chaillot near the Palais Royal, an amphitheatre, east of the Pantheon near the R. Monge, a second palace beneath the Conciergerie, several cemeteries and tombs, in the R. Vivienne on the north, and also in the south, a Roman camp, a factory of pottery, a mass of antiquities at Montmartre, the Mons Martis, I think, not the Mons Marty mm.

This forms a mass of Roman antiquities which together raise Paris to the rank of importance amongst the scanty remnants of ancient civilisation in Northern Europe. In the Thermes we have the Roman Louvre, in the altar of Jupiter the antitype of Notre Dame, in the cemetery of the R. Vivienne the Roman Phe-la-Chaise, in the foundations below the Palais de Justice, the Roman Hotel de Villc, in the Parvis de Notre Dame perhaps the Roman Forum, the predecessor of the Place de Grlve.

There is seldom to be met so striking a bit of city topography as the long history of evolution in the Cite, or island, of Paris. First, it was a group of palisaded eyots in a broad river spreading out on both sides into swamps — the river stronghold of a tribe called by the Romans Parisii, a word possibly connected with Bar, which is thought to signify a frontier (Bar-sur-Aube, etc.). Then this river stronghold is joined to the mainland by two bridges not in a straight line but at opposite ends of the island and both doubtless defended; it is next a Roman city, ultimately walled, with its central temple, its municipality, its quays, and some outlying buildings, the Imperial Palace, the amphitheatre, cemeteries, camp, and the like, on the mainland, both north and south: one bridge, now the Pont au change, opening into the Place du Chdtelet; the smaller bridge, now Petit Pont, higher up the river over the narrow arm, at the end of the R. St. Jacques.

[istanbulhints]

Historic way of seeing Paris

That is the historic way of seeing Paris. But how many thousands of our tourists believe they know Paris as well as London, and have exhausted all its sights, and hurry through Paris, and yet they could not tell where the Convention had its hall, or how it came there, or where the bones of king and queen and the other victims of the guillotine were laid, and why they were thrown in that spot, or where the guillotine stood: nor have they seen the cells where Marie Antoinette and Danton, Vergniaud and the Girondins passed their last hours — or could distinguish the parts of the Louvre, or tell for whom the many L’s and H’s and M’s are inscribed — or where our Henry v. Lived when he was ruler of France after Azincourt, and where was the Palace of St. Louis, or of Philip Augustus, or Clovis, or the original Lutetia of the Parisii.

Let us try to group the record of Paris in historic epochs and in their right chronological order.

It is easy to realise the Latetia of the Romans, the first Gaulish settlement. Loukhteith, its Celtic name, is said to mean ‘the stronghold in the morass,’—not ‘mud-city,’ as Carlyle calls it, — nearly the same as Llyn-dyn, or London, which means the Lake-town. The island (or eyot as we say in the Thames), in the Seine a little below the junction of the Marne, where the Bievre flows into the Seine, formed an excellent fastness. Caesar has given a vivid account of the siege of Paris in 52 B.C., and from the top of the Pantheon we can stand and trace the campaign of Labienus, as told by the mighty general of Rome. The historic record of Paris thus begins 1946 years ago. It was a city of some, but not of great importance in the Roman Empire private tour istanbul, its most famous incident being that it was the favourite residence of the Emperor Julian in the middle of the fourth century. In a well-known passage in his Misopogon, he speaks of his dear Lutetia, of its soft and delightful climate, and the richness of its vines.

There is something strangely suggestive in the association of Paris with the brilliant, philosophical, wrongheaded young Caesar, with his paradoxical ideals, romantic adventures, and tragic end.

Roman remains called Les Thermes

It is well known that the grand Roman remains called Les Thermes, adjoining the Cluny Museum, belonged to the palace of the Caesars, the great hall forming the frigidarinm of the Baths, and the rest of the foundations have been fairly made out. Other Roman remains are the altar found under Notre Dame, many altars and tombs, both Pagan and Christian, a large collection of objects in the Carnavalet Museum, some remains of city walls of the fourth century, the famous inscription of the naiitae or watermen’s gild of Paris, two aqueducts, that of Arcueil on the south near Bicetre, and that of Chaillot near the Palais Royal, an amphitheatre, east of the Pantheon near the R. Monge, a second palace beneath the Conciergerie, several cemeteries and tombs, in the R. Vivienne on the north, and also in the south, a Roman camp, a factory of pottery, a mass of antiquities at Montmartre, the Mons Martis, I think, not the Mons Marty mm.

This forms a mass of Roman antiquities which together raise Paris to the rank of importance amongst the scanty remnants of ancient civilisation in Northern Europe. In the Thermes we have the Roman Louvre, in the altar of Jupiter the antitype of Notre Dame, in the cemetery of the R. Vivienne the Roman Phe-la-Chaise, in the foundations below the Palais de Justice, the Roman Hotel de Villc, in the Parvis de Notre Dame perhaps the Roman Forum, the predecessor of the Place de Grlve.

There is seldom to be met so striking a bit of city topography as the long history of evolution in the Cite, or island, of Paris. First, it was a group of palisaded eyots in a broad river spreading out on both sides into swamps — the river stronghold of a tribe called by the Romans Parisii, a word possibly connected with Bar, which is thought to signify a frontier (Bar-sur-Aube, etc.). Then this river stronghold is joined to the mainland by two bridges not in a straight line but at opposite ends of the island and both doubtless defended; it is next a Roman city, ultimately walled, with its central temple, its municipality, its quays, and some outlying buildings, the Imperial Palace, the amphitheatre, cemeteries, camp, and the like, on the mainland, both north and south: one bridge, now the Pont au change, opening into the Place du Chdtelet; the smaller bridge, now Petit Pont, higher up the river over the narrow arm, at the end of the R. St. Jacques.

[culturalifeus]

Historic way of seeing Paris

That is the historic way of seeing Paris. But how many thousands of our tourists believe they know Paris as well as London, and have exhausted all its sights, and hurry through Paris, and yet they could not tell where the Convention had its hall, or how it came there, or where the bones of king and queen and the other victims of the guillotine were laid, and why they were thrown in that spot, or where the guillotine stood: nor have they seen the cells where Marie Antoinette and Danton, Vergniaud and the Girondins passed their last hours — or could distinguish the parts of the Louvre, or tell for whom the many L’s and H’s and M’s are inscribed — or where our Henry v. Lived when he was ruler of France after Azincourt, and where was the Palace of St. Louis, or of Philip Augustus, or Clovis, or the original Lutetia of the Parisii.

Let us try to group the record of Paris in historic epochs and in their right chronological order.

It is easy to realise the Latetia of the Romans, the first Gaulish settlement. Loukhteith, its Celtic name, is said to mean ‘the stronghold in the morass,’—not ‘mud-city,’ as Carlyle calls it, — nearly the same as Llyn-dyn, or London, which means the Lake-town. The island (or eyot as we say in the Thames), in the Seine a little below the junction of the Marne, where the Bievre flows into the Seine, formed an excellent fastness. Caesar has given a vivid account of the siege of Paris in 52 B.C., and from the top of the Pantheon we can stand and trace the campaign of Labienus, as told by the mighty general of Rome. The historic record of Paris thus begins 1946 years ago. It was a city of some, but not of great importance in the Roman Empire private tour istanbul, its most famous incident being that it was the favourite residence of the Emperor Julian in the middle of the fourth century. In a well-known passage in his Misopogon, he speaks of his dear Lutetia, of its soft and delightful climate, and the richness of its vines.

There is something strangely suggestive in the association of Paris with the brilliant, philosophical, wrongheaded young Caesar, with his paradoxical ideals, romantic adventures, and tragic end.

Roman remains called Les Thermes

It is well known that the grand Roman remains called Les Thermes, adjoining the Cluny Museum, belonged to the palace of the Caesars, the great hall forming the frigidarinm of the Baths, and the rest of the foundations have been fairly made out. Other Roman remains are the altar found under Notre Dame, many altars and tombs, both Pagan and Christian, a large collection of objects in the Carnavalet Museum, some remains of city walls of the fourth century, the famous inscription of the naiitae or watermen’s gild of Paris, two aqueducts, that of Arcueil on the south near Bicetre, and that of Chaillot near the Palais Royal, an amphitheatre, east of the Pantheon near the R. Monge, a second palace beneath the Conciergerie, several cemeteries and tombs, in the R. Vivienne on the north, and also in the south, a Roman camp, a factory of pottery, a mass of antiquities at Montmartre, the Mons Martis, I think, not the Mons Marty mm.

This forms a mass of Roman antiquities which together raise Paris to the rank of importance amongst the scanty remnants of ancient civilisation in Northern Europe. In the Thermes we have the Roman Louvre, in the altar of Jupiter the antitype of Notre Dame, in the cemetery of the R. Vivienne the Roman Phe-la-Chaise, in the foundations below the Palais de Justice, the Roman Hotel de Villc, in the Parvis de Notre Dame perhaps the Roman Forum, the predecessor of the Place de Grlve.

There is seldom to be met so striking a bit of city topography as the long history of evolution in the Cite, or island, of Paris. First, it was a group of palisaded eyots in a broad river spreading out on both sides into swamps — the river stronghold of a tribe called by the Romans Parisii, a word possibly connected with Bar, which is thought to signify a frontier (Bar-sur-Aube, etc.). Then this river stronghold is joined to the mainland by two bridges not in a straight line but at opposite ends of the island and both doubtless defended; it is next a Roman city, ultimately walled, with its central temple, its municipality, its quays, and some outlying buildings, the Imperial Palace, the amphitheatre, cemeteries, camp, and the like, on the mainland, both north and south: one bridge, now the Pont au change, opening into the Place du Chdtelet; the smaller bridge, now Petit Pont, higher up the river over the narrow arm, at the end of the R. St. Jacques.

[istanbulhippodrome]

Historic way of seeing Paris

That is the historic way of seeing Paris. But how many thousands of our tourists believe they know Paris as well as London, and have exhausted all its sights, and hurry through Paris, and yet they could not tell where the Convention had its hall, or how it came there, or where the bones of king and queen and the other victims of the guillotine were laid, and why they were thrown in that spot, or where the guillotine stood: nor have they seen the cells where Marie Antoinette and Danton, Vergniaud and the Girondins passed their last hours — or could distinguish the parts of the Louvre, or tell for whom the many L’s and H’s and M’s are inscribed — or where our Henry v. Lived when he was ruler of France after Azincourt, and where was the Palace of St. Louis, or of Philip Augustus, or Clovis, or the original Lutetia of the Parisii.

Let us try to group the record of Paris in historic epochs and in their right chronological order.

It is easy to realise the Latetia of the Romans, the first Gaulish settlement. Loukhteith, its Celtic name, is said to mean ‘the stronghold in the morass,’—not ‘mud-city,’ as Carlyle calls it, — nearly the same as Llyn-dyn, or London, which means the Lake-town. The island (or eyot as we say in the Thames), in the Seine a little below the junction of the Marne, where the Bievre flows into the Seine, formed an excellent fastness. Caesar has given a vivid account of the siege of Paris in 52 B.C., and from the top of the Pantheon we can stand and trace the campaign of Labienus, as told by the mighty general of Rome. The historic record of Paris thus begins 1946 years ago. It was a city of some, but not of great importance in the Roman Empire private tour istanbul, its most famous incident being that it was the favourite residence of the Emperor Julian in the middle of the fourth century. In a well-known passage in his Misopogon, he speaks of his dear Lutetia, of its soft and delightful climate, and the richness of its vines.

There is something strangely suggestive in the association of Paris with the brilliant, philosophical, wrongheaded young Caesar, with his paradoxical ideals, romantic adventures, and tragic end.

Roman remains called Les Thermes

It is well known that the grand Roman remains called Les Thermes, adjoining the Cluny Museum, belonged to the palace of the Caesars, the great hall forming the frigidarinm of the Baths, and the rest of the foundations have been fairly made out. Other Roman remains are the altar found under Notre Dame, many altars and tombs, both Pagan and Christian, a large collection of objects in the Carnavalet Museum, some remains of city walls of the fourth century, the famous inscription of the naiitae or watermen’s gild of Paris, two aqueducts, that of Arcueil on the south near Bicetre, and that of Chaillot near the Palais Royal, an amphitheatre, east of the Pantheon near the R. Monge, a second palace beneath the Conciergerie, several cemeteries and tombs, in the R. Vivienne on the north, and also in the south, a Roman camp, a factory of pottery, a mass of antiquities at Montmartre, the Mons Martis, I think, not the Mons Marty mm.

This forms a mass of Roman antiquities which together raise Paris to the rank of importance amongst the scanty remnants of ancient civilisation in Northern Europe. In the Thermes we have the Roman Louvre, in the altar of Jupiter the antitype of Notre Dame, in the cemetery of the R. Vivienne the Roman Phe-la-Chaise, in the foundations below the Palais de Justice, the Roman Hotel de Villc, in the Parvis de Notre Dame perhaps the Roman Forum, the predecessor of the Place de Grlve.

There is seldom to be met so striking a bit of city topography as the long history of evolution in the Cite, or island, of Paris. First, it was a group of palisaded eyots in a broad river spreading out on both sides into swamps — the river stronghold of a tribe called by the Romans Parisii, a word possibly connected with Bar, which is thought to signify a frontier (Bar-sur-Aube, etc.). Then this river stronghold is joined to the mainland by two bridges not in a straight line but at opposite ends of the island and both doubtless defended; it is next a Roman city, ultimately walled, with its central temple, its municipality, its quays, and some outlying buildings, the Imperial Palace, the amphitheatre, cemeteries, camp, and the like, on the mainland, both north and south: one bridge, now the Pont au change, opening into the Place du Chdtelet; the smaller bridge, now Petit Pont, higher up the river over the narrow arm, at the end of the R. St. Jacques.