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somedaylazysomeday · 7 months

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A Grand Deception - Part Two

Some weeks after your infiltration, your shop receives an unexpected visitor.

Continued Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Rating: Explicit. Minors, please do not interact

Word Count: 4,600

Warnings: Money concerns, overworked employees, lying, discussions of sexual experience, discussions of keeping a mistress, kissing, fingering, unprotected sex, handjob.

Previous | Masterlist

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The weeks after your excursion passed in a rush of activity.

It had been simple to burn the gown you had worn to the masquerade. The day after the ball, you cut it into sections of fabric, disguised those in baskets of scrap material, and sent all of it to a nearby furnace. Your mask had ended up in the Thames.

Speaking officially, it was not the time of year when your dress shop was busiest. The late months of winter saw a few requests for dresses and other articles of clothing, but most ladies had already purchased a full wardrobe by the mid-point of the season. Other than the occasional wedding trousseau, you would not see more orders until the weather began to grow warmer.

However, you found yourself busier than usual in early February because one young lady had worn a dress with a particularly daring neckline to a recent ball. She had been met with censure by mamas in the ballroom, but had received some six proposals the next day. Young ladies and their mothers across the ton were demanding gowns altered to feature a similar neckline.

It was a simple enough alteration to make, but time-consuming with the delicacy of the fabrics. You and your two assistants found yourselves occupied with sewing from sunup until your eyes could no long bear sewing by candlelight in the evening.

“I cannot stop crying,” Beatrice announced, rubbing at her watering eyes. Lottie reached out without truly looking, preventing Beatrice’s dropped garment from falling to the floor. “How many more dresses need to be altered?”

“Seventeen,” you answered without counting. The ever-shrinking number had been your sole source of motivation, and yet it was still a terribly large number.

A stunned silence met your answer. You sighed, lowering the dress you held onto the table you were all sharing. “Finish the dresses you are working on, ladies. After that, you may go home for the evening.”

“It is but six,” Lottie objected. “And we have seventeen-”

“I am well aware, trust me,” you interrupted. “We will not finish our orders this evening regardless, and we only risk ruining fabric if we continue to work while our eyes are weary. Finish what you are working on and I will send messages for the remaining fourteen. I will offer them a lower price for a later completion date. We will start work a half hour before dawn tomorrow in hopes of finishing sooner.”

“Can we afford to accept a lower rate?” Beatrice asked softly.

The impertinence of the question was excusable with how hard you had all been working, but even more so because you were warmed by her use of ‘we’. The business was yours, but it was wonderful to have two assistants who cared as much as you.

“We shall be fine,” you assured her, smiling. “Come now, finish that gown. We cannot have you weeping on the fabrics.”

Beatrice wiped at her streaming eyes, smiled, and bent back to her work. Lottie had been sewing steadily while you spoke and finished setting her stitches first. You examined her work, deemed it perfection, and dismissed her for the evening. Beatrice was not far behind, though you had to stop her from trying to surreptitiously pick up another gown.

“The work will be here tomorrow morning,” you promised. “Good night. Be safe.”

The gust of winter chill that blasted through the back room of your shop pulled you from the comfort of your seat. You needed to search for the names attached to the gowns that were not finished, then send notices to them.

It was no easier to write by the trembling candlelight than it had been to sew. You closed your eyes when the notes were finished, stealing a moment to breathe.

You would never burden them with your worries, but you had not been entirely truthful with Beatrice and Lottie. The shop could survive discounting your rates for the unfinished necklines, but your funds were already low. You needed whatever business you could steal until the spring brought a flurry of orders for light weight dresses.

The spring inventory had been ready months ago, and you were pleased to see that they were still on-trend. Your store had only to survive until the days grew longer and warmer. It was your responsibility to see that your doors were still open in two months.

When you felt worry shift toward self-pity, you cut the thoughts short. You gathered your stack of notices and stepped out into the piercingly cold night, waving down a few messenger boys and instructing them where to deliver your notices.

The cost of the deliveries was unavoidable, yet you felt the weight of your financial struggles bear heavier on your soul as you returned to the warmth of your shop. Perhaps you would attempt to finish another neckline or two before you closed up for the night…

The bell above your door jangled cheerily and the cold of the night rushed in, turning the warmth of your stove to something barely above freezing. You turned, striving for an even tone as you requested, “Please close the door.”

Your guest did as you asked, turning to pull the door shut against the wind. You took the moment he was facing away as an opportunity to gather yourself.

What Benedict Bridgerton could be doing in your dress shop, you hadn’t the slightest clue, but he did not know your true identity. He could not.

When he was facing you once more, your expression was politely neutral. “How may I help you, sir?”

“I- am looking for silks,” Benedict said, his explanation disjointed. “For my sisters, of course. I have been tasked to find someone who can create garments for them. Do you-? Is that a service you provide here?”

“Yes, sir,” you agreed. “I am no modiste, but I can shape silk garments well enough. Do they need only custom items? I have a selection of pre-made garments ready for sale. Gloves, scarves, bonnets..?”

“I believe they need custom garments,” he told you, peering at you far more intently than was necessary from the question. “What is your name?”

You smiled, leaning forward to ask conspiratorially, “Did you not see the sign above the door?”

Benedict looked stunned, then a wide smile broke across his face. “You are the owner?”

“None other,” you confirmed. Who else would you have named the store after, if not yourself? It had been your labor that brought it into existence, and you had thought it only fair. “It is my greatest accomplishment.”

“It is very impressive,” he agreed, looking around appreciatively. “Though I believe your greatest accomplishment was fooling a ballroom of people into thinking you a member of the Sharp family.”

You had expected this, but you had also expected that he would hint about it more subtly. You stared at him in a silence that stretched far too long. “I do not understand.”

“I recognize you,” Benedict said simply. “You wore a mask, but nothing could disguise the intelligence in your eyes or the strength of your wit. To find that you own a successful business is wonderful, but far from surprising. I expected nothing less of you.”

The compliments mollified you slightly, gave you hope that he did not intend to drag you into the street to be accused of trespassing or worse. “Why are you here?”

“We did not finish our conversation.”

It was a simple answer, but it still made you laugh aloud. “That is true. But what could a Bridgerton care for the opinions of a dressmaker?”

“Let us forget, for a moment, Bridgertons and ballrooms and social status,” Benedict suggested. “I greatly enjoyed your company when we met. I would like to spend more time with you. Do you feel the same?”

You could not lie to him: “Yes.”

He nodded, though he was already smiling again. “Good. That is… good.”

“I must ask, though…” You lifted your chin, staring him in the eyes. “Precisely what would you like to do in the time you spend with me?”

Benedict hesitated for only a moment. “Whatever you would like to do together. I will not pretend I do not find you desirable, but I would never push that on you.”

“Benedict, I am no blushing virgin,” you warned. “I am no whore, but I have known men. Does that bother you?”

“Not in the slightest,” he said instantly. “I am experienced as well. Why should it bother me that you are not untouched?”

“The motivations of men are beyond me,” you said with a shrug.

Benedict smiled at your faux-despairing tone. “On the topic of male motivations, I will state mine plainly: I wish to make you my mistress.”

You considered the proposition for a moment. It piqued at your pride, though you had no objections to Benedict as a partner. “Why can we not simply enjoy each other without worrying about what we call our dalliance?”

“I would prefer to have an arrangement between us,” he revealed. With an apologetic look from under his lowered brows, he added, “I fear I might become rather jealous of your time.”

Men, you thought irritably. Why could they not allow something to exist without attempting to own it? “I do not believe-”

“I would provide you with all of the usual benefits of being a lord’s mistress, of course,” he interjected.

You narrowed your eyes at him. “And let us suppose that I am unfamiliar with the customs surrounding the practice of keeping a mistress. What benefits?”

“I will rent an apartment for you. I will meet you there,” Benedict explained. “I will provide for your needs - food, clothing, and whatever else you may require to live a comfortable life while you are my mistress.”

A sudden inspiration overtook you. “I have a counterproposal. I would like you to invest in my shop. It would not be charity, nor would you be purchasing anything untoward, but I would furnish you with a percentage of my profits at the end of each year.”

Benedict eyed you. “You… want me to support your business. Instead of supporting you?”

“Yes. I can support myself and, if we decide to form an attachment, you are more than welcome in my home. But this is what I value the most.”

You gestured around the room. It was warm and cheerful, a candle reflector spreading the light of a long taper. That golden glow lent an intimate illumination to the finished dresses and bolts of fabric around the room. A mirror triptych with a stool in the middle helped you with fitting in the daytime, but after dusk, its reflection served as another light source for the room.

“This is what I would choose for you to support if we were to be man and mistress.”

“For a second time, you have sounded uncertain of this,” Benedict pointed out. “If you have doubts about this arrangement, I will not force you into anything.”

“I simply believe it would be wise for us to see whether we are well-matched in the bedroom before we make commitments of any kind,” you said.

Benedict’s look of shock was strong, but it melted into a lascivious smile soon enough. “You need not convince me. But first, I should ask… How many investors does your business have?”

“You are the only one.” You paused. “Or perhaps you were asking about other relationships in my life…”

“No, I truly was asking about your business,” he hurried to say. “And I am honored that you are allowing me to take part in something of such importance.”

“I have no other lovers,” you clarified, on the chance that was also a concern for him. “Not for a while.”

“Neither do I,” he murmured, stepping closer to you. “May I kiss you?”

“Yes.”

The last sibilant letter had scarcely touched the air when Benedict pressed his lips to yours. One of his hands rose to cradle your jaw while the other cupped heat against the side of your neck.

His lips were gentle against yours, asking for your acceptance instead of demanding it. You met his kiss softly, but your eagerness shone through the way you leaned closer. In the tightness of your grip against his forearm as you steadied yourself. In the way you were the first to deepen the kiss.

Benedict made a noise of surprise, but it was clearly not one of displeasure. His hand tightened against your jaw, tilting your head to a better angle. The brush of his tongue against yours was welcomed, and you gave a satisfied sigh even as the furor inside of you raged higher.

Time passed by as it ever did, yet you both seemed unaffected in the peace of your shop. It seemed a mythical burrow of some magical creature - a warm, quiet hiding place allowing some comfort against the chill pervading the busy street outside.

When you finally parted, Benedict wore a dazed expression, and you were certain your own face mirrored it. Neither of you spoke immediately. For your part, you were entranced by Benedict’s reddened lips and the quickness of his breath.

Your voice was low enough to keep the scene intact instead of bursting it like a soap bubble. “I do not believe we need worry about a lack of compatibility.”

“No,” Benedict agreed, his eyes crinkling with his smile. “How much experimentation do you intend to do tonight?”

“I would prefer to have a final decision before you leave my shop,” you answered honestly. When he seemed surprised, you hesitated. “If you object, of course, we can plan to meet up another time…”

Benedict shook his head immediately, the motion strong and certain. You were relieved; the ache that had been building between your legs would have left you very unhappy if it were not sated.

“Forgive me for asking yet again, but I must know that you are certain. I am willing to wait as long as you require-”

“I am certain,” you interrupted, laughing softly. “I truly am, Benedict. In fact, I am nearing desperation.”

His eyes went dark. “We cannot allow that. Where should we go?”

“One moment,” you requested. He waited patiently as you locked the door, then beckoned him toward the back room where you had been working with Beatrice and Lottie.

The back room was smaller than the main shop, but even warmer. The lack of a large mirror in that space left it slightly dimmer, more intimate with the shadows filling the corners of the room. There were designs hanging on the walls, bearing your theories of what fashions might change between this season and the next. Scraps of fabric overflowed from a basket in one corner. Lottie had sewn together a charming little dog out of some extra fabric one slow day, and he presided over the basket.

“I like this room,” Benedict announced as he followed you in. It did not appear to be false flattery, as he studied every detail he could. He seemed particularly enamored by your designs. “These are quite good. You have a particular talent with lines.”

You laughed despite yourself. Even before you offered an explanation, Benedict was smiling at you, sharing in your joy. “I should hope so. What is sewing if not a collection of lines?”

“I believe you are right, though I’ve never considered it before,” Benedict admitted. He reached out to tangle his fingers in yours, tugging you closer with your joined hands. “You must forgive me. I find my interest thoroughly captured by one thing in this room above all else.”

“The patchwork dog,” you guessed. “His name is Scrap. You needn’t be embarrassed; he captures the interest of all.”

You had never before had occasion to be kissed while smiling, but you found it intoxicating.

It seemed you had only just begun when the kiss began to change into something far more intense. While your previous kiss had been lovely and glimmering with tension, this was filled with intent. You stroked over the muscles of Benedict’s jaw before weaving your fingers through his hair. From there, it was a simple thing to walk him backward until his legs met the edge of your worktable.

He made a noise of surprise, eyes opening to search yours. You glanced behind him. “The table is full, but I believe we can make good use of that chair.”

Benedict looked back as well, taking in the sight of a dozen neatly written dress tags, an assortment of sewing needs, and a diagram of how to alter the necklines of the gowns you had been working on. His gaze traveled last to the chair you had indicated, excitement flaring in his expression when he faced you once more.

“I believe we can,” he agreed, voice low and intimate. “Shall we… oof!”

Shoving a gentleman forcefully into a chair was inelegant. From the surprise on his face, this was the first such encounter Benedict had experienced and you were likely not doing credit to your social class. Unfortunately, you were far too impatient to allow for anything more leisurely.

You straddled him a moment later, hastily shoving at your skirts to keep from sitting on them. There were far too many layers of fabric between you as it was.

Benedict recovered quickly from his shock, his hands roaming eagerly over your body as you kissed once more. Your fingers were busy unfastening the row of small buttons holding his waistcoat closed, then worked on the ones fastening the neck of his shirt. You pushed the fabric away the moment you had finished your task, luxuriating in the feel of Benedict’s bare chest. Coarse hair met your fingertips and you kissed him harder as your body realized what was about to happen and responded with a surge of excitement.

“Wait,” Benedict urged, catching your hands in his to still your explorations. “You have yet to lose a single stitch. And, if my sisters are any measure, undressing a lady requires time. We must hurry; I am desperate for you.”

You considered undressing, but discarded the idea after a single moment. While Benedict was quickly stripped, you were wearing far too many layers to allow for such a thing. At any rate, the air in the shop was cool and exposing yourself to it entirely seemed a poor choice.

“Allow me to compromise,” you proposed, tugging at the skirt of your dress until you were pressed against the fabric of his breeches.

Benedict still wore a confused expression, and you took his hand in yours. It took little urging for him to put his hand under your skirt and run his fingers over the cloth covering your mound. When he found the slit in your drawers and his fingertips made contact with your folds, he released a choked gasp.

“One moment.”

The next instant, you were were back on your feet. You had no recollection of standing, but Benedict’s hands on your waist told you that he had likely towed you upward. Without you blocking his access, he worked efficiently at the buttons of his breeches, quickly freeing himself from their confines.

You caught a single glimpse of his cock, rising hard and proud from the puddle of the clothing that he had hastily shoved aside. Your study was cut short when he hauled you back onto his lap.

“Allow me to ask a final time,” he started.

“Yes,” you interrupted, kissing him again as you stroked him. The texture of a man was one you found incredible - hot velvet over unimaginable hardness. His tip was leaking liquid, ready to ease the push of him inside of you. From the state of your underclothes, it would be unnecessary, but the response of his body told you that his hesitation stemmed from consideration for you rather than from misgivings of his own.

There was some amount of fumbling in getting yourselves positioned perfectly. Benedict tore a section of your skirt. You lost your balance twice. He ensnared himself in your drawers while trying to sheathe himself in you. During that last misstep, Benedict treated you to a blistering curse at his own foolishness while you laughed.

“I vow to you, I am not as clumsy as I appear,” he explained. Embarrassment was not an emotion that seemed to come easily to Benedict, but color had risen in his cheeks.

“Have you already forgotten our evening spent together?” you asked. “Of the two of us, I was by far the clumsier. Allow me.”

You reached between you, nimbly avoiding both your skirts and his breeches to take him in hand once more. Benedict twitched in your grasp, thrusting helplessly into your palm as you guided the flushed head of him against your entrance.

If pressed, you likely could have deciphered which of you had moved first. However, in the moment, the magic of you lowering yourself and him arching upward thrust him into you in a long, slow stroke. It felt as if the moment would last forever, and yet you would never tire of feeling him stretching and filling you.

When you blinked, you were sitting on Benedict’s lap once more, your body working to reconcile itself with the pleasurable invasion. Your chest rose and fell with your quickened breaths, your toes curled against the chill of the floor, and your hands were fisted in the unbuttoned halves of Benedict’s waistcoat.

“‘S everything well?” Benedict asked. His voice sounded strangled, and you felt less embarrassed by the tremble in your own.

“Yes.” And because of the expressions playing over his expressive face, you returned, “And you?”

Benedict gave a short laugh. “I believe ‘well’ would be understating the way I currently feel. You are… incredible.”

Heat rose in your face. You had not been complimented for quite some time, especially not in such a blunt way. Still, you sought to brush it away as if you were unaffected by Benedict’s praise.

“And I believed the flattery would stop when we shared a bed.”

“Flattery? My lady, I speak only the truth.” Benedict tilted his head back, all the better to stare up at you. “Though you have made a grave error. If this is the only way I can convince you to continue our arrangement, I will do my utmost to win you over.”

“Then do,” you challenged.

Benedict grinned, though it went a little slack as you lifted up on your toes to start riding him in earnest. His hands rose to your waist, helping you rise and fall on him in an ever-quickening pace.

Your panting was loud in the quiet room, drowning out all sound from the street outside. Benedict was breathing heavier as well, matching you as your shared pleasure grew. Occasionally, a sound would escape one of you, spurring the other to repeat what they had done.

You found that tightening the muscles of your core when you were at the bottom of each stroke drove Benedict wild. He twitched inside of you each time, the muscles of his chest jumping under your palms. For his part, Benedict had discovered that tilting his hips changed the angle at which he reentered you. His constant experimentation kept you from growing accustomed to the sensations of your joining, and each thrust was new and different yet managed to build on all of those that had come before.

The slow and steady movement of you atop him had increased in pace and grown unsteady with the combination of weary muscles and need. Your thighs were trembling, and Benedict’s guiding hands had shifted to half-lifting you. The desire had grown thick inside of you, solidifying low in your belly as it wound tighter and tighter. The tension could not twist much further before it snapped entirely.

Benedict’s hand wriggled roughly under your dress once more. It was not subtle - you watched, dazed, as he fought past the layers of skirts and petticoats until he reached you - but you still jolted with shock when his fingers made contact with you. Dextrous fingers parted your damp folds, pressing between them until he could stroke gently over the sensitive button at the top of your slit.

You jolted again, tipping your head back to release an animalistic cry. That simple touch had snapped the tension entirely, and you were blinded by pleasure. Your body tightened and relaxed around him again and again, your inner muscles working over him even as the rest of your body continued to mindlessly shudder and thrust.

When you at last fell still, your core continued working around Benedict’s length. His hand rose to cup your cheek, and you glanced up to find him watching you with warmth in his eyes. “You are beautiful.”

You smiled at him, pressing briefly into his hand before gathering your strength. You lifted yourself from his still-hard cock, but did not retreat far. You sat slightly further back on his lap and began working your fist over him. The shine that you had left on him aided your efforts, and you soon found a speed and grip that made Benedict’s breath catch in his throat.

His hips danced subtly beneath you, working him through your hand until he gasped. Benedict’s hand wrapped around yours, tightening your shared grip as he sank his teeth into his lip and tried to contain a groan. His release burst from him a moment later, thick ropes of milky liquid coating your hands and leaking onto any clothing that had not been pushed far enough away.

When the tension in Benedict’s grip eased, you followed suit. Some men could not bear to be touched so soon after they had reached completion. It was best to take your cues from your partner until you learned what he liked.

There was a pensive sort of look in Benedict’s expression as he caught his breath. You reached over and snagged a scrap of fabric from what had been removed from the altered necklines and used it to wipe Benedict’s release from his skin. You took care to be gentle on both his manhood and his hand, then took the same care with your own fingers.

When you were both clean, you glanced up to find him watching you with a smile playing around his mouth. It was a common expression for him, but you could not help but think it looked lighter than you had ever seen it before.

“Cleaning us with silken handkerchiefs?” he teased. “What luxury.”

��I should rather think the son of a lord wipes his bottom with silken handkerchiefs,” you fired back.

“What an idea!” he said, pretending to consider it. “Perhaps I should suggest that when I return home.”

You hummed noncommittally.

Benedict allowed you nearly a full ten seconds of peace before he spoke again. “And? What is your verdict on our compatibility? I believe we are exceptional together.”

“I believe… we could be very well matched, indeed,” you admitted. You did not hold misgivings about Benedict save that you could already feel your attachment to him growing stronger. When your dalliance ended - and it would - you would be left shattered.

If only that seemed justification enough not to go through with it.

“I agree,” Benedict said, leaning forward to capture your lips in another kiss.

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Author's Note - Thanks for reading! I would feel too weird about having a story so close to canon for me to continue writing this fic, but I can't let it end without explaining that Madame Delacroix is the one who 'helped' Benedict find the reader.

I never do this, but I've gotten a good response from this fic, and I feel a little guilty because this is very much not my typical subject matter. If you like my writing and want to read more stories of this nature, you might enjoy Captured, which is written like an old pirate-themed bodice ripper. Or Dreams, which is similar to this in descriptions and certain themes, but is more supernatural. Both of the stories I've listed are a little darker than this one. I also have two Hobbit fics (A Boon and Dexterity - featuring Thranduil and Thorin, respectively) which have some Regency-ish manners and themes, but with a fantasy tilt. As always, check the warnings to see whether it's something you want to read.

Thank you for reading! I appreciate the kind words about yesterday's chapter. They really made me smile!

#fanfic february #fanfic february 2024 #bridgerton #benedict bridgerton #benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton x you #fem!reader #reader #reader insert #reader insert fanfiction #reader insert fanfic #reader insert fic #spicy #lemon #not suitable for minors #minors dni

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corainne · 8 months

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RoL Novellas I would love to read, an incomplete list:

Something about Mama Thames and her daughters, from one of their PoVs (preferably Bev), to get a more intimate look at their family dynamics and powers

Abigail at uni (in the not so far off future)

Slice of life Peter/Bev after the twins are born, no case, no high stakes, no nothing

Similarly Peter/Bev between FS and HT

Nightingale at Casterbrook

Nightingale at the Folly during the 20s/30s, from his PoV

Molly (before the folly, at the folly, idc)

Guleed solving a magicky case on her own

The Folly falling apart after the war, told from Hugh Oswald's PoV

Vignette sort of thing about Lesley from first trying to do magic to killing Chorley

#feel free to add your own #rivers of london

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salaapaoo · 2 years

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...Thames bloodline being able to reincarnate... But they usually end up dying tragic deaths early on or smth because of their messed up rings right ?

TW, death and blood and injury !

Cale had demanded to accompany his mom to Harris village, going as far as to throw himself onto the floor in a crying fit to get his way. Usually, he's extremely well behaved for his mom.. he's a mama's boy after all.

Any signs of that tantrum are completely wiped away and replaced with content as he clambers onto his mom's lap in the carriage. The seats are lined with plush, burgundy cushions that Cale sinks into once he slides off of her lap. It's early enough in the morning that dew clings to the panes of the carriage's glass windows, droplets slowly trickling down in jagged lines. Cale rests his head in his mom's lap, lulled back to sleep by the gentle sway of the carriage and feeling of her fingers tracing along the bridge of his nose.

A mix of pride and overwhelming love swells up within her chest at the boy in her lap. Her baby.

Cale is growing up so quickly and it almost feels like it's too quick... Jour misses his baby days, but she still loves watching her baby grow up every day.

She watches Cale with so much love as he snoozes on in her lap, his chubby cheeks just so... Round... She can't resist poking them.

It's a serene atmosphere, particles of dust dancing in the growing sunbeams that shine in through the windows. She shields Cale's eyes with a cupped hand when they creep in too closely.

Their carriage jolts to a stop and her slender hands scramble to stop her child from tumbling off her lap onto the floor. The warmth and content in her chest is replaced with writhing vines of anxiety that threaten to take root in her lungs. Her heart is racing within her chest as her son lets out a small whine, turning to bury his face into her stomach.

They're quickly surrounded by black cloaked figures, and Jour is filled rapidly growing despair. Something deep down wriggles desperately within the depths of her stomach, whispering of horrible endings that she's sure will come true.

Jour flings the curtains closed and fumbles with the lock of the door. It won't do much to defend them from their assailants, but... Hopefully it'll be enough to buy her some time. She whispers a silent apology to the knights who have been assigned to keep her company on this trip as the sounds of metal clashing against metal fills the air.

"Cale, baby, you have to wake up," she whispered, trying to keep her voice steady so that her son wouldn't panic, "you have to do something for mama."

Cale's reddish brown eyes flutter open, his small brows scrunching up in dismay at having his nap interrupted. He blinks at her in confusion, slowly clearing his mind of the sleep that fogged it.

"Mama needs you to hide in the compartment, can you do it?" She asked, getting down to kneel in front of him after sitting him up. "We're playing a game... And if you hide well, then you'll be the winner! I'm sure if you tell Ron's son that you've won, you can get an extra serving of dessert."

Jour tried to keep her tone positive as she spoke to her son in a hushed voice, hoping that he wouldn't pay any attention to the clanging and grunting that surrounds them.

"Baby, you have to be extra quiet okay? Mama will sit here and hide you so you win... Promise mama that you won't come out no matter what, okay?" The serious look in her eyes had Cale obediently agreeing without questions.

The seat they had been sitting on opened up to reveal a storage compartment. Jour ushered her son into the hiding spot before closing it with a click! Only a tiny beam of light from a nail hole keeping him company in the dark.

(Something's wrong... But he doesn't know what. His chest fills with the thundering of his heart as he hides. The giddy joy from the promise of dessert is eaten up by a feeling of dread. Something's wrong).

It has become deathly still outside of their carriage and Jour is certain that the knights of their estate have fallen.

The knob rattles violently against its plate on the door.

(Jour prays that someone, anyone would come to their rescue, but her prayers weren't answered).

The door gives in with a deafening crack when a blood and mud covered boot collides with it. The assailant practically ripping the remaining parts off of the hinges with an animalistic growl.

Her eyes tremble at the sight of the black clad man, the nauseating stench of blood pouring into the carriage.

The man says nothing as he stares at her. His dark, immoral eyes reflecting no remorse or mercy.

"w...why..?" Her voice came out feeble and cracked.

She gets no answer as the sharp blade of a sword plunges into her chest, carving deep grooves into her ribcage. Blood bubbles up from her mouth as searing pain spreads from where the sword is twisted within her. She wills herself to stay on top of the seat as the man rips the blade from her body, blood splattering against the interior of the carriage.

The man only raises his eyebrow at her, his features still uncaring as he turns away to leave.

Once she no longer hears the sounds of receeding footsteps, Jour lugs herself off of the cushioned seat, her breathing wet and labored as she strained to open the compartment.

Her son's usually rosy face has taken on an almost sickly pallor as he's met with the light of day again.

"Cale... Cale... My precious baby... You did so good..." Her voice was barely audible over the rushing in his ears, "such.. a good boy..."

It must be the adrenaline that gives her the strength to lift her child into her arms.

"I'm sorry... Mama's sorry... You must've been so scared..." She rocked him, pressing bloodstained kisses against the crown of his head.

Cale's small shoulders shake as muffled cries escape his bitten lips. His hands fisting her red stained dress as hot tears race down his face.

"I love you, my baby," she crooned, ignoring the blistering pain as she holds him tightly. She knows she would... Have to go soon. The adrenaline is starting to fade.

"I..." She swallows the lump In the back of her throat, already used to the coppery taste that settled in her mouth. Her tears leaving cleaned tracks on her bloodied face.

"I hope that... In our next lives... You aren't born as my child... And I'm not born as your mother... Because at least then, maybe... we wouldn't have to suffer so much..."

Distantly, she eyes her son's twisted rings, praying that at least he would be spared from fate's cruel hands.

#tcf #trash of the count's family #cale henituse #lout of the count’s family #lcf #tcf cale #original cale henituse #jour thames #lcf cale #salaapaoo fic ideas

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period-dramallama · 6 months

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Becoming Elizabeth: the Mystery of the Missing Dudleys

Yes, the show says that Robert is the oldest, but John Dudley says "of all my children" which definitely doesn't sound like a guy who only has 2. So I assume the others do exist they've just jumbled up the ages aaaand they're either growing up in the country or in the Tudor court equivalent of an office creche. They must be pretty young not to be at court in some capacity though, since Guildford is roughly Edward's age. Maybe they're about 4-10 years old? Not younger since the parents are in their 40s.

(Also Robert is 15-16 and he's already taller than his dad HA)

And where are Anne Stanhope and Mama Dudley? Well, Jane has been at court in the past since she was sneaking off with John to a hiding place for.... scheming? A smooch? A quickie? All of the above? And John says that Robert was missing from court for 5 days when his messenger arrived. Meaning within that 5-day window, John realised Robert was MIA, told Jane, and Jane "was asking to dredge the fucking Thames for your body, boy" so Jane is probably not buried in the countryside but either at court but offscreen or maybe like, down the road. Makes sense, given Dudley is away in Scotland or in Norfolk and needs someone at court to represent him who at the same time is clearly not on the council. And Jane wouldn't be on the council (alas).

Interestingly we see the Seymour children but not Anne... so presumably Anne is at court but offscreen?

#becoming elizabeth

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inlovewithquotes · 1 month

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"Mama found the letter," she said. "First she hid it from me. I thought you had forgotten--at least I found it in her room. She was dreadfully angry. I told her again we only had a friendship, but--" She shook her head. James was conscious that everyone in the room was staring at them. Even Anna was looking at them curiously through the cheroot smoke that wreathed her like Mist off the Thames. "She wouldn't say what was in it, she just smiled as the days went by and you didn't come. And I was so frightened. When we are not together, when we are not with one another, the bond between us weakens. I feel it. Don't you?"

He shook his head. "Love must be able to survive distance," he said, as gently as he could.

-Chain Of Gold

#quotes #book quotes #literature #books & libraries #life quotes #cassandra clare #the shadowhunter chronicles #the last hours #tlh #chain of gold #relationship quotes #james herondale #grace blackthorn

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adoracora-elizabeth · 1 year

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The truth always comes out, chapter 33

“How am I going to tell this to Papa?" Sybil asked Tom.

"Or your mother?" Tom said.

Sybil looked at Tom. "I am not worried about her reaction. Mama will understand, she will be hurt…….." Sybil stopped. "Oh no."

Tom took Sybil’s hands in his. "What is it?"

"Mama is still healing from the divorce, and now I am adding even more hurt on her."

"She is a strong woman."

Sybil let out a deep sigh. "We do not have a choice. We need to tell them. Let's start with Mama."

+++

Cora watered the flowers in the garden. She had found a cosy home in Richmond. Close to the river Thames, where she made daily walks. Although she was on her own, she was happy here.

All three girls had their own room, something that was especially important for Cora. They did not use those rooms a lot, but she needed them to have their own private place.

She walked towards her front door when the doorbell sounded. "Sybil darling, Tom, I did not know you were coming?"

"We did not tell you. Can we come in, or are you busy?" She looked at her mother’s clothes. She was wearing dungarees with a simple t-shirt underneath. She had never seen her mother like this before, but she liked to see her free spirit come out. She had always known her mother was like her.

Cora brushed her hands over her clothes, to get the dirt off them. "I always have time for you. Come in. Tea?"

They sat down in the garden. It was lovely spring weather.

"We have some news." Sybil started.

Cora looked from Tom to Sybil. "You are pregnant?" She stated.

Sybil coloured.

"Oh darling, that is wonderful." Cora jumped up and wrapped her arms around her.

"We have more news. We are also married." Sybil held out her hand and showed her ring to her mother.

Cora took her hand without a word. She did not know how to react to this news. "I think I have to congratulate you two with your marriage."

Sybil wrapped her fingers around Cora’s hand. "You are not upset?" She asked.

Cora looked up and contemplated for a second before she answered. Of course, she was upset that her daughter got married without her mother present. Cora had always dreamed of her girls' wedding days. But Sybil and Tom must have had a good reason to marry in secret. "I am not upset, darling. I would have loved to be there. But no, I am not upset."

"We thought it was best not to have a big wedding because of his Lordship and your situation." Tom said, putting his hand on Sybil's knee.

"You can call him Robert. There is no need for you to be formal. And please also start calling me Cora. I am your mother-in-law now."

"Do you mean that, Mama?" Sybil asked.

"Darling, I understand and agree that it was not the time for a big wedding. I also understand that you two wanted to be married well before this news will announce itself." Cora put her hand on Sybil’s belly. "How far along are you?" She felt a slight bulge she thought.

"I am well into my fourth month and am starting to show a little already."

Cora kissed Sybil’s cheek and got up to hug Tom. She kissed both his cheeks. "Welcome to the family, Tom." She looked at Sybil. "And do I need to call you Mrs. Branson now?

"May I present to you, Lady Sybil Branson née Crawley." Tom said with a wide smile.

+++

Robert put down his pen and looked at his watch. He got an instant smile on his face. Mary would come soon with Matthew. She was spending her days more at his place, then at home. He could not blame her, since Cora had left, he was not the nicest person to be around. He did not drink, he knew Mrs. Hughes did keep track of his drinking and he was thankful. Being drunk would not improve anything about the situation. He had to accept that Cora was gone and would never come back. According to Rosamund´s reports she was as happy as she could be in Richmond. He saw pictures of the house she found, and he was surprised by the size. He had thought she would buy something bigger. But there was exactly enough room for the four of them. Cora and her girls. He felt a lump in his throat. it would never be them and their girls anymore. Of course, he was happy Cora was able to go on with her life. He only hoped she would miss him too, as he missed her incredibly. There was not a day that he did not want to walk to her sitting room or walk into her bedroom. Since Cora had left, he let one of the guest bedrooms remodel, to a room for him. He could not sleep in his dressing room, and he tried sleeping in Cora´s old bedroom, but those nights he did not got a wink of sleep. He was tossing and turning and reaching for her hand. He still smelt her smell on the pillow. Although he had not been in her room for weeks now, so he was not sure her smell would still be there.

"What are you dreaming of?" Mary's voice sounded.

Robert shook up. "Good to see you Mary, Matthew." He got up to shake his hand. "Ready to dive into the world of Downton?"

Matthew nodded. "Very much ready. We should start with the books?"

"Books? What do you mean by that?" Robert asked.

"Matthew, maybe you should Papa be the lead in this?" Mary was not sure her father would like Matthew’s approach.

"I am sorry, I am so eager to start, that I want to go to fast. With the books I mean the records off how the financial status of the estate is. But Mary is right, you are the expert here and I will follow."

Robert frowned; he did not like it when other people messed with the numbers. He had everything in order according to himself and he did not need anybody to help him. He took a deep breath because he knew he needed to learn to let things go. In the end, Matthew would see the numbers. If he really intended to share the running of this estate. But for that there must first be a marriage he thought.

#cora crawley #robert crawley #downton abbey #fanfiction #downton #cobert

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doctorhimbeere · 11 months

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Okay I get that London is a big city and rivers are very important their and it has like a lot of sidearms but why the hell does it have like (including father Thames court) like 20-40 River Demi loci thats ridiculous ??? Like the Rhein get like what 3 ???? This is some mad bullshit and yes the nazis killed some as mentioned in the october man but what ? And why are all of them like powerful if their were this many, wouldn't they like delude each others power and influence?

Really like to hear some other opinions/theories on that ,plus it really bugs me that the rest of the demi monde kind of bows and caters to them because mama Thames is like how old 70 ? 80 ? I bet my left hand that at least 1/3 of the demi monde are older than her or any of her daughters but Tyburn can just walk all over them like a princess?? On what ground ? Its a bit to much for me.

#rivers of london #someone should really slap tyburn back into reality she is just a brat at this point

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multitudeofmuses · 1 year

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RIVERS OF LONDON SERIES by Ben Aaronovitch

~~ FANCAST ~~

Beveley Brook | Genius Loci

Beverley Brook is the current Genius loci of the London river with the same name. Genius loci are the gods/goddesses or spirits of the rivers themselves. Beverley brook is a Genii locorum of the River Thames and its tributaries. She is the child of Mama Thames, Goddess of the Thames River in London. It is unknown if she was conceived by the magic of Mama Thames like the river Chess, or through some other method.

Like Peter Grant she is of West African descent. She enjoys extremely spicy food and often appears wearing fashionable clothing or t-shirts with assorted sayings printed on them. She has demonstrated an interest in cars, and and is a student at Queen Mary University reading Environmental Science. She is a confident, intelligent woman who appears as a physically attractive woman in her mid-twenties with dreadlocks. She has an affinity for some types of people from the demi-monde, particularly Molly and Mellissa Oswald.

SUGGESTED CASTING:

ADWOA ABOAH ( 31 years old ) DEBORAH AYORINDE ( 35 years old ) NENDA NEURURER ( 28 years old ) SAVANNAH STEYN ( 27 years old ) TANYA FEAR ( 33 years old ) ADELAYO ADEDAYO ( 34 years old )

**all actresses are of african descent

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beatrice-otter · 1 year

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Fic: Five Times Abigail Met People From the Demi-Monde, and One Time She Didn't

Title: Five Times Abigail Met People From the Demi-Monde, and One Time She Didn't Author: Beatrice_Otter Fandom: Rivers of London Characters: Abigail Kamara, Nicky, Brent Wordcount: 9,157 words Rating: General audiences Written For: opalmatrix in Worldbuilding 2023 AN: This story takes place in spring of 2014, a bit under a year after "What Abigail Did That Summer" and a few months before "The Furthest Station." Abigail is 14, Nicky and Brent are about 8. The Golden Chip of Hanwell does indeed exist, but the Fisher family are fictional. Birdylion was a great help with canon details Lavender_threads went above and beyond the call of duty as a beta and helped me brainstorm things that really brought it all together. Thank you both. At AO3. At Dreamwidth. On Pillowfort. Abigail stared at Peter. "So, what you're saying is, you want me to babysit your girlfriend's baby sisters." It wasn't an offer she got often. She wasn't exactly the girl the mums round the estate thought of when they were trying to find someone to watch their kids. At least, not the ones who only knew her by reputation. And the ones who knew her family, who knew how much help she was with Paul, they didn't want to bother her. Or hire her on a night her mum might need her, which was just about any night. "Not babysitting," Peter protested. "Bev'll be around, and available if anything happens." "Then what does she need me for?" Abigail asked.

Peter sighed. "It's hard socializing goddesses, okay. They can glamour almost anyone they want outside their family. And if they're ever going to have friends—instead of minions—they need to know how to get along with ordinary people without putting the whammy on them."

"And they can't put the whammy on me," Abigail said. After the House by the Heath, there was very little that could influence her unless she let them. That had been a bit of a trial by fire, and more than a bit scarier than she'd been anticipating when she started that investigation, but she'd come out of it with an absolute knowledge of who she was and how to maintain that even when something powerful was trying to bend her to its will. She hadn't spent much time among the genius loci, but she couldn't imagine even Mama or Father Thames being more powerful at illusions than that stupid house was.

"And they can't put the whammy on you," Peter confirmed.

"But Bev doesn't trust that, which is why she'll be around," Abigail said.

"She doesn't know you as well as I do," Peter said. "But also, the girls have had a lot of authority figures telling them when and how they can use their powers and when and how they shouldn't, and it hasn't made much of a difference. If you're the babysitter, you're just another grownup telling them what to do. Bev wants to try a different approach."

"I'm fourteen," Abigail pointed out.

"To an eight year old, that's ancient," Peter said. "You're almost twice their age. But still young enough to be the cool older kid, hopefully. Bev thinks if they like you, and look up to you, they may think it's more important to behave in a manner you approve of."

Peter knew well the impact of Abigail's Determined Face, though she tried to use it on him sparingly. She'd found that it helped, sometimes, to save that up for when she really needed it. It had more impact when the target had had less time to build up immunity. Still, Abigail had a finely tuned meter for adult nonsense, and something about how he talked was lighting it up bigtime. "And?"

"And what?" Peter asked.

"And if that's all, you would have asked me last summer when you got back from Rushpool and found out what happened on the Heath," Abigail pointed out. "Why now?"

Peter sighed. "It's Nicole," he said. "The one who grew up with the fae. She's a bit of a bad influence, 'cos she has the glamour too, and all her life she's been taught that it's right and good to use it on mortals. And there's a limit to how much they can separate her from Brent and Nicky, given their lives revolve around Mama Thames' home, even though Fleet's the one who's fostering Nicole and all three of the girls spend lots of time with other Rivers so they're not all under the same roof at the same time."

"And right now, Nicole is the cool older kid," Abigail said. "You want me to replace her."

"It's worth a shot," Peter said.

"What's in it for me?" Abigail asked. She didn't mind kids, but she wasn't all gooey over them, either. The kind of thing Peter was talking about would take a serious amount of time, and she had other things she wanted to do more. There was a whole world of things to figure out in London.

"Money?" Peter said.

"Sure," Abigail said, "and what else?" Money was always nice, and a year ago it would have been enough. But now she'd been doing odd jobs for Simon's mum for eight months, and she had quite a bit of change socked away. She hadn't spent much of it—no need to be flashy and obvious—but the security of it was reassuring. She doubted Peter and Bev would be willing to match Simon's mum's rates, anyway.

"What do you want?" Peter asked.

Abigail considered this. The big thing she wanted was magic, which he'd already promised to teach her. Her Latin was at least as good as his, now, and while Peter might want to put things off as long as possible, Nightingale would do the gentlemanly thing and insist on fulfilling the promise as soon as she proved she'd fulfilled the spirit of the bargain. "I want introductions to more of the demi-monde," she said.

"What kind of introductions?" Peter asked.

"I've read the County Practitioner records, and a lot of the books in the Folly Library," Abigail said. "But the sort of nonsense a bunch of posh white men thought a hundred and fifty years ago doesn't tell me much about where to go to find people now. Honestly, it doesn't even tell me much about what things were like then. I want to meet people. I want to see what they're really like." There was a whole world out there that touched the world she'd grown up in, but wasn't quite the same, and Abigail wanted to know what it was like.

"I get veto on where we take you, and who you meet," Peter said.

"As long as you don't use it as an excuse to not take me to the cool places," Abigail said. "I get to veto any visit to something boring or something I already know about."

"Fair enough," Peter said.

One.

They needed to be strategic about things. If Abigail showed up and was introduced formally as A New Friend for the girls to hang out with, they'd know something was up.

So, instead, she was at Bev's place doing her homework in the garden when the girls walked out of the Thames in their fancy wetsuits and swim caps.

"Who're you?" one of the girls asked, wrinkling her nose up.

"Abigail," Abigail said absently, trying to figure out where she'd gone wrong. Bev had given her a hint and said to call for help if she needed it. Abigail would much rather have the satisfaction of figuring it out herself than having the answer handed to her, but the carbon cycle was proving a bit tricky. "Peter's my cousin. Bev's helping me with my science homework." She looked up. "You're Bev's sisters, yeah? I've seen you around. She said you'd be around today."

"I'm Brent," said the second girl. She was shorter than the one who'd spoken first. Her nose was broader and her cheekbones not quite as high as Nicky's, and her skin was a deep tawny brown. "This is Nicky."

"Neckinger," said the other girl with a scowl. She was a bit taller, with a sharper nose and cool brown skin. Bev had said she was currently flip-flopping on whether she'd rather be Neckinger or Nicky. Apparently it was a Neckinger day.

The air was filled with the smell of animals, and the feeling of sun on your face, and the distant hum of machinery and church bells. Underneath it was a low grinding and the chill of ice. The church bells and machines were probably Neckinger, but the animals could be either, and the ice was probably Brent, as her river dated back to before the last ice age. This was the seducere, the glamour, that all genius loci gave off to a greater or lesser degree. They weren't seriously trying anything; it was just sort of feeling her out, a test, to see how vulnerable she was. Abigail was good at tests, and even better at this sort since last summer's adventure, but that had put her off this sort of thing.

"Hey," Abigail said. "Bev's around somewhere." She turned back to her worksheet.

By the time she'd finished it and set it aside for Bev to check, Brent and Neckinger were out of their wetsuits and in jeans and t-shirts, and Maksim had brought out bottles of squash—Robinson's, no own-brand in the Thames family. Personally, Abigail thought that having Bev's devoted worshipper (and manager of her Conservation Trust) waiting on the girls wasn't likely to be much help convincing them that they shouldn't be putting the fix in any time they could.

"I want to watch Pirates of the Caribbean tonight," Neckinger said.

Brent rolled her eyes. "Again?"

"So that's your favorite movie, then?" Abigail asked.

"She likes the scenes when they're hanging pirates," Brent said.

"They used to do that, where I flow into the Thames," Neckinger said. "'S where my name comes from." She cracked open her bottle of apple-and-blackcurrant and took a sip.

"Really?" Abigail asked. "How's that?" She'd looked up their rivers of course, so she already knew the answer, but she liked seeing how people answered questions.

"It comes from 'Devil's Neckcloth,'" Neckinger said. She mimed placing a noose around her neck and made a face like she was being hanged.

"I see," Abigail said. Neckinger was a bit bloodthirsty, but no worse than some other nine-year-olds Abigail knew.

"I'd rather watch the Hunger Games," Brent said. She eyed Abigail over her bottle. "Are you staying?"

"Maybe," Abigail said. "Depends, don't it. I'm waiting on a call." She wasn't, really, or not about anything important, but the whole point was to seem cool and exciting.

"From whom, your boyfriend?" Brent asked. Neckinger went oooh.

"Nah," Abigail said. "I look into things for people sometimes."

"What kind of things?" Neckinger asked, perking up.

"Confidential things," Abigail said. "Besides my investigative skills, they also pay me for my discretion."

"No, really, what kinds of things do you investigate?" Brent asked. "You can tell us something, can't you?"

Abigail pretended to consider. "You know the house near Hampstead that was a genius loci that trapped kids in it to play pretend? That was one of mine."

"I haven't heard about it," Neckinger said.

So Abigail told the story, with suitable embellishments, and the girls were properly amazed at it. Abigail liked it better this way, as an adventure with a plucky girl hero saving the day, rather than what it had actually been, which was confusing and terrifying. But the fact that it made her feel better to tell the story that was reason not to. Abigail would rather have the hard truth than the comforting story. But she needed the Thames girls to be impressed.

"Tell us another one!" Brent said.

Abigail had other stories, but none were adventures on anywhere near that scale. And many of them were private, or confidential. "Nah," she said. "That one doesn't have a client, so it's fine to tell. But like I said, I get paid for discretion."

"You can tell us something, though," Neckinger said. "What about the case you're working on now?"

Abigail looked to either side, as if checking the bushes for eavesdroppers. There weren't any, she knew; the foxes had some sort of business of their own that was keeping them busy tonight, which they hadn't shared. She leaned closer to the girls. They leaned towards her. "Can you keep a secret?" Abigail said quietly.

Both girls nodded vigorously.

"So can I." Abigail gave them a smirk and leaned back again.

Brent pouted.

"You can tell us," Neckinger said, with the weight of her river behind her.

Abigail's expression didn't change.

"Tell us," Brent said, adding her own pressure.

And that was interesting; either she was trying harder, or she was more powerful. Abigail wondered if it was because her river was longer and had more water, or because it was open instead of underground, or maybe it was that the river they called Brent today had been carving out a place for itself for the last half a million years, and the Neckinger had only existed for a bare thousand or so. And maybe it was only that two orisha acting together multiplied their powers, instead of adding them.

But no matter which explanation was true, even together their pressure didn't add up to the overwhelming power of that stupid house's memories.

Abigail waited until it was clear both girls had noticed she was unmoved. "You know, that house by Hampstead Heath wanted me to be a nice obedient puppet, too."

Brent looked stricken at the analogy, but Neckinger was less moved.

Abigail stared them both down. They'd been told often enough that there were boundaries, and that forcing someone to do something they didn't want to do was well past them; they knew—or should know—that they'd been in the wrong.

"Sorry," Brent said, looking down. Neckinger muttered something that passed for an apology.

"Apology accepted," Abigail said. She gathered up her homework. "I'm going to go find Bev." Both as a matter of strategy and as a matter of pride, she wasn't going to hang out with people who did that to her. If they wanted stories so badly they'd try and force it, they wouldn't get any, at least not on this visit.

She'd definitely earned her pay this time.

Two.

"What do you know about the Quiet People, who live in tunnels below London?" Abigail asked Indigo. They were sitting in the bushes in the park across the street from the Kentish Town West Underground station. Since making friends with the foxes, Abigail had started hanging out in parks a lot more.

"Not much," Indigo said. "We observe and report, but they're better at blending in in the city than we are."

"Yeah, but you both live underground," Abigail pointed out, scratching Indigo in her favorite spot. "Your dens and their tunnels never cross?"

"They're a lot further down than we are," Indigo said, "and we don't use the trains like they do. Why do you want to know?"

"Peter's taking me to meet some of them," Abigail said. "The kids who come up to the surface for school and to get used to the light. And maybe they'll let me visit their tunnels, if they like me."

"That would be interesting intelligence," Indigo said.

"I'm sure it would be," Abigail said, but if she paid the foxes for intelligence, she certainly wasn't going to give them any for free. Not when it wasn't what the foxes called an operational matter. It was the principle of the thing. Though obviously they wouldn't be trading for food. "Maybe if you have interesting things for me, I might trade. Things I find interesting," she clarified, because they sometimes had very different ideas of what was important.

"I'll have to check with my superiors," Indigo said.

"Fair enough," Abigail said.

Indigo left, and Abigail took the Tube to meet Peter.

…

Peter'd warned her the Quiet People were, well, quiet, but she hadn't really thought they'd be this quiet. The whispers were honestly getting to her.

"Is it true that you all have sex before fifteen?" Molly Ryan said so quietly Molly almost couldn't make out her words despite the fact that Molly was right next to her. She was about Abigail's age, dressed in jeans and an embroidered white blouse with a high collar that could have passed on any BBC costume drama without question.

"No, of course not," Abigail said quietly back. "Where did you hear that?" They were sitting in a circle, with Peter and the teacher talking quietly in the corner. Her introduction had turned quickly into an interrogation as the other kids peppered her with questions about what life was really like on the surface.

Molly flushed as the other kids snickered. "John Digger said—"

"I think we all know why he'd say that," one of the other girls muttered scornfully. She was wearing modern clothes, except they didn't look quite right, and from her posture Abigail thought she might be wearing a corset under her T-shirt.

"Well, obviously, but at least he's been out on the surface by himself," Molly said. "He has friends up here! All I've done is ride the Tube."

"Couldn't you look it up on the internet?" Abigail asked. "I know you've got computers here." Wi-fi might not work in their tunnels, but it definitely worked in their classroom on the surface, and there were three computers set up in the corners. They were even oriented so that the person using them had their back to the wall, and nobody could see what you were doing with a casual glance, which Abigail approved of.

"The internet's full of lies, though," Molly whispered. "I wasn't sure I'd find a reliable site. I'm not that good at telling the difference, yet, and I certainly wasn't going to ask for help." She glanced over at Peter and the teacher, and shuddered.

"You could go to a library," Abigail said. "That's more likely to have reliable sources. You'd need a card to check books out, but even without one you can read any book in the library as long as you do it in the library."

"What's a library?" one of the boys asked. Abigail thought his name was Riley; he was dressed like he'd just stepped out of the 19th Century, with brown wool trousers held up by suspenders, and a collared shirt with a neckerchief.

That took a bit of explaining, and most of the kids seemed really excited by the idea of a place they could get books for free. Abigail was a bit taken aback, but then she realized that not only did they not have the internet down in their tunnels, they wouldn't have TV or radio. Books would be a form of entertainment they could bring home with them. So Abigail told them about the different genres of fiction, so they'd know what sort of things they might like to try when they got their library cards, and looked up which libraries were closest to which tube stations.

"So what do you think about the surface?" Abigail asked, when all the questions about libraries and books had been answered. It was the question she'd wanted to ask since she learned about the Quiet People.

The kids had a wide variety of expressions. "It's alright, I suppose," muttered Riley, wrinkling up his nose. "But everything's so ugly. And plain. You don't decorate anything."

Everyone nodded, which surprised Abigail. After all, they lived in a dark hole in the ground with pigs. Even if it was neat and tidy, how nice could their tunnels be?

"There's so much cool stuff, though," said one of the girls who was wearing jeans and a hoodie. Abigail hadn't caught her name.

"If you can afford it," someone whispered.

"It's so expensive, and doesn't even look good," the girl with the excellent posture said. "What even are they doing with all the money? Have you seen those condos for rich people? Big glass and steel boxes! I know they can afford to make things look nice, so why don't they? What's the point of building anything if it doesn't satisfy the soul as well as the body?"

A murmur of agreement went around the circle.

"I'm glad we can come up more easily, now," Molly said. "I'd like to meet more people. I like that I have the chance to learn more, and maybe have a job outside the tunnels. But mostly, I just want them to run lines down so we can get electricity and TV and the internet."

There was another round of nods and agreement.

Now Abigail was even more curious about their tunnels. Even granted that people tended to like things that were familiar, she'd expected them to all think the surface was cooler. It had more space, more stuff, and the sun.

That visit didn't end with an invitation to their tunnels, but they did ask her to come back the next time they had school and she didn't. Although, she wasn't sure whether that was because they genuinely liked her and wanted to know more about the surface, or because they liked sitting around talking instead of doing schoolwork.

…

"Make any friends?" Peter asked as they drove back to Russel Square.

"Maybe," Abigail said. The Quiet Kids were alright, but none of them really stood out to her. "Apparently nobody's ever told them about libraries, before."

"Really?" Peter said in surprise. "I'd have thought that would be the first place they'd have a field trip to."

"Do they have field trips?" Abigail asked. "And also, Miss Ten-Tons is a Quiet Person herself. Even if she's got regular textbooks to teach from, how would she know about things like libraries?"

"And Lady Ty aside, Zach's their big contact, and I doubt he's much for libraries," Peter said. "If I talked to Miss Ten-Tons about organizing a field trip, would you be interested in going along?"

"Maybe," Abigail said. "Depends on how busy I am. Who's Zach?"

"He's a … honestly, I'm not sure how he'd classify himself, but I know that calling him a 'goblin' is an insult," Peter said. "Does a lot of odd jobs around the demi-monde, knows everybody, compulsively moves all the time."

"Can I meet him?"

"No," Peter said firmly.

"Why not?" Abigail asked.

"Because your mum and dad would kill me if they found out I introduced you to a petty criminal like Zach," Peter said.

"You didn't say he was a criminal, and he must be at least sort of reliable if he's the main contact for the Quiet People School," Abigail said. Someone who knew everybody was likely to be an interesting and useful person to know.

Peter grumbled a bit, but was unmoved.

At least for now. She'd have to work on him a bit.

Three.

The second time Abigail came over to hang out with the Thames girls went better. This time, she'd been running errands with Peter on a Saturday and he'd wanted to see his girlfriend, who happened to be supervising Brent (but not Nicky) as they did … some River thing both Abigail was unclear about. So they met up for lunch in Hanwell, and Peter and Bev gave her and Brent money for lunch and let them wander off while Peter and Bev chatted.

"But don't bother Mrs. Canal," Bev told Brent and Nicky sternly. "I mean it."

"It was all in fun!" Brent protested. "Mrs. Canal wasn't even that bothered!"

"Bothered enough to talk to mum about it," Bev said. "I'm not getting a chewing out like the one Effra got, and if there's one thing you can be sure of—" she fixed Brent with a gimlet eye "—it's that water flows downhill. Got it?"

Brent muttered an agreement, and Abigail and Brent wandered off. "Who's Mrs. Canal?"

"Orisha of the Grand Union and Regents' Canals," Brent said. "Descended to her river about the same time Mum did, and I don't know the story there, but they have an aggro. Fleet and Ty are even worse about the whole thing, which I think is just jealousy. Mrs. Canal may be a man-made feature and only two centuries old, but she's all above-ground and she's got a lovely flow rate and she's longer than both of them put together. The fact that she's not even human just makes it worse."

"By 'not human' do you mean, like, fae or something?" Abigail asked.

"She's an orangutan who escaped from the London Zoo in the 60s," Brent said. "Now she lives in a terrace in St. Mark's Crescent and has a devotee named Melvin Starkey who lives with her and takes care of stuff."

"I didn't know an animal could be an orisha," Abigail said, trying not to sound too startled, trying not to think too hard about why a human and an orangutan might want to live together. Then she realized Melvin was probably only devoted to Mrs. Canal in the way that Maksim was devoted to Bev. And also, if a house could be a genius loci, why not an orangutan? "What other kinds of things can be orisha, do you know?"

Brent shrugged.

"Do you have any followers?" Abigail asked.

"Yeah, but not like that," Brent said. "And mum says me and Nicky can't try for any until we're at least twenty-one. Unless we're being threatened and need to defend ourselves … and she gets to decide afterwards if it was a genuine danger." She sighed at the injustice of it.

"Where are we getting lunch?" Abigail asked. It had been half-past one o'clock when she and Peter had found Bev and Brent. It wasn't that she was hungry, but it was an excuse not to comment on the idea of worshippers. Just because she found the idea mildly creepy didn't mean the worshippers did. Maksim really enjoyed his current life.

"Chippy just down the street," Brent said.

The Golden Chip of Hanwell (with a blue awning proclaiming it had been selling traditional fish and chips since the 1890s) was your typical hole-in-the-wall chip shop, taking up a storefront just wide enough for a door and a window, with cream and black tile on the walls and gray tile on the floor, and just enough space inside the front door for a few people to stand at the counter.

When they walked in, Abigail wondered if they'd stepped through a time warp or something. It wasn't just the décor. The girl behind the counter was white, and at her cry of welcome two more white people poured out of the back. This might be the last white-operated chip shop in London.

"Lady Brent!" The girl behind the counter curtseyed. Literally curtseyed, like something in a costume drama. "You honor us with your presence!"

Brent inclined her head regally, as if this were no more than her due. "This is my friend Abigail Kamara," she said. "Abigail, this is Charlotte and Dean and Chloe Fisher." She turned to the woman who'd come out from the back. "How're things along this stretch of the river, Charlotte?"

Charlotte began filling Brent in on all the gossip in the neighborhood, most of which was desperately boring to someone who didn't know any of the people involved or live in the area, but Brent listened gravely. They talked about development plans, and how the river was doing, and the rash of petty street crime that had started up. Abigail listened and didn't let the mundanity of the gossip or the grumbling of her stomach distract her from filing away everything she heard. You never could tell when some bit of knowledge might come in handy, and this was a shop that worshipped orisha—who knew what other oddities might be lurking.

At last their conversation wrapped up with Brent telling them there was something wrong with the water mains down the street, and to call the council to have them send someone to take a look at it.

Then Brent blessed the chippy. The Fishers knelt, the pipes gurgled in the walls, and Abigail hung back awkwardly, trying not to fidget. She didn't want to be rude, Miss Margot had done a fair bit on respecting peoples' faiths, but also, they were worshipping an eight-year-old girl Abigail knew for a fact had an underdeveloped code of ethics.

To make things even more awkward, the bell at the door rang as a white woman in a hoodie wandered in, yammering away on her mobile. She paused, eyes going wide as everyone turned to look at her. "Is … is the shop open? I'm sorry to bother you?"

Brent smiled. "That's fine, we're done."

Abigail could feel the warmth of the coming summer breezes fill the chip shop, and underneath it the grinding ice of glaciers past, and gritted her teeth. But the customer smiled happily at Brent.

"Your usual, L—Brent?" Dean said.

"Yes, thank you," Brent said. "And the same for Abigail." Abigail found that a little presumptuous, but on the other hand, it was a chip shop. It wasn't like it had a wide menu.

Dean nodded, and disappeared to grab their food while Chloe took the customer's order.

Dean reappeared shortly with two orders of fish and chips, light and crispy and perfectly fried, with enough hot sauce to be worth eating. Brent began happily chowing down. "So how did you come to know the Fishers?" Abigail asked as they walked out the door and began to wander through the streets.

"The Fishers have lived and died by my river since time out of mind," Brent said. "They've always worshipped me—even after the last Brent died, they stayed faithful. They used to sell eel pie, instead of fish and chips, you know. When Mum came here and found me in the river, they were waiting by the banks."

"How did they know there was a new spirit?" Abigail asked. It made her feel a little better about the whole worship thing. If it had lasted over generations, it couldn't have been compelled. It could only have been freely chosen.

Brent shrugged. "I dunno. They never said."

"Are they human?" Abigail wondered. "Do they have some sort of extra sense? Or do they just know how to read the water and the neighborhood?"

Brent shrugged again. "I dunno. Am I human?"

Abigail considered the question. "You're definitely a person," she said, because that was the easy bit.

"Duh," Brent said, rolling her eyes.

"How many people worship you like that?" Abigail asked.

"Only the Fishers stayed faithful while there was no spirit in the river," Brent said, "but a few other people have started making offerings."

"Anything good?"

Brent made a face. "Not really. Some bottles of beer, which Mum made me give to her. I wasn't going to drink it, I don't even like beer, it tastes gross. But I wanted to keep them as a trophy."

"Do the Fishers help coordinate river cleanup things like Maksim does?" Abigail took a bite of her fish. It was really very good.

"Nah, the chippy keeps them busy, they don't have time. If someone else organized an event, they'd show, but …" Brent shrugged. "Bev lends me Maksim, sometimes, and the rest of my sisters help out too when I need it. But my river's doing pretty good even where it's canalized, so they spend more time helping Nicky with things."

…

The Golden Chip of Hanwell had an active Facebook page and was mentioned in several articles about what a nice neighborhood Hanwell was. The Fishers, also, had all the sort of social media presences one would expect. Chloe was in Year 10 at Elthorn Park High School, and her Instagram had a lot of pictures of her out running the tow path by the river Brent.

Abigail messaged her and, on a nice day they didn't have school, she met the older girl at the Brent River Park Walk for a run.

"So you're Brent's friend, then?" Chloe asked as they stretched.

"Sort of," Abigail said. "My cousin Peter is dating her sister Beverly Brook."

"Your cousin is dating a goddess?" Chloe sounded shocked.

"Well, it's not like he worships her, or anything," Abigail pointed out. "And he's a practitioner with the Folly, so she can't glamour him, and he's got a bit of power of his own to balance things out."

"Yeah, but there's a difference between having a bit of power, and being a goddess," Chloe said. "Even when you're talking small-g-goddess, not, like, ultimate power of the universe or anything."

Abigail shrugged. "They seem happy together."

"I suppose," Chloe said dubiously, and started off jogging. Abigail had to stretch her legs a little to match her. "Mum's uncle married a nymph who lived near Warren Farm, and that wasn't happy even before her grove got cut down and she died. But that was partly because nymphs change with the seasons—in fall and winter she was alright, and even sometimes in summer, but in spring—she had the mind of a child, and that made things hard."

Abigail could imagine. "Did her body change too, or just her mind? And when you say 'child,' what age are we talking about?"

Chloe shrugged. "She died before my time, so I don't know. His second wife was a regular human woman, and they had two kids together and moved to Wokingham."

"Where's that?" Abigail asked.

"It's some dire hamlet off the M4 near Reading," Chloe said.

"Ugh," Abigail said.

"There is nothing to do there," Chloe said. "But she says, it's a great place to raise kids, and he says there aren't any memories, so they're happy."

"Aren't there a lot of trees out there?" Abigail said. "I'd think there would be more chance of nymphs there than there would be in London."

"I don't know," Chloe said. "If there are any, I've never met them."

"Peter met a nymph, once," Abigail said. "Her name was Sky, and her grove was at Skygarden. Her grove got cut down, and she died. Just before the terrorist attack."

"That's so sad," Chloe said. "And it's not like they're rivers, where a new spirit can be born as long as the river survives. When the trees are gone, the nymph is just … gone."

"Yeah," Abigail said. "And they couldn't charge the people who cut Sky's trees down with murder, because how would you explain to a jury that nymphs are real? So Nicky—that's the River Neckinger—killed them. They drowned on dry land, in the middle of a London street."

They ran in silence for a bit. "When Aunt Elma was killed, there was no chance of a murder trial, either," Chloe said. "Except there was no spirit in the Brent River then, and Mrs. Canal didn't take any notice. No chance for justice either way."

What did you say to that? There wasn't anything. Abigail had a lot of questions, but she always had them, and now wasn't the time. Better to bide her time and build a relationship, then you got the possibility of more later.

"Where do you run, mostly?" Chloe asked, after a bit.

"Hampstead Heath," Abigail said. "Sometimes Regent's Park or Hyde Park, if I'm down at the Folly and want to stretch my legs."

"So, are you going to be a wizard, then?" Chloe asked.

"Peter's promised to start training me as soon as my Latin is good enough, which it pretty much is," Abigail said. "And they're using me as an unpaid intern at the Folly, organizing and searching through old records and things."

"They should pay you," Chloe said. "The Isaacs have lots of money, don't they? I get paid for working in the family chip shop."

"It didn't start out with a formal job offer," Abigail said. "I was just hanging around, and they put me to work. A lot of it's interesting, or funny, even the stuff that's wrong. And eventually they're going to pay me with lessons."

"Still," Chloe said.

"I like figuring things out," Abigail said. "Which the Folly's records sometimes make harder than it should be. Those old white men in the 19th Century were pretty clueless sometimes."

Chloe laughed. "That fits with the stories granny used to tell about the Isaacs," she said. "None of it was good. Are we in those files?"

"Not that I've seen," Abigail said, "although there's still a lot to go through, most of it not even indexed. They do talk a bit about people who worship genius loci, and it's mostly along the lines of you all being gullible fools mesmerized by tricks and glamour."

Chloe laughed again. "I'd like to see anyone try to put one over on my dad," she said. "That would be funny, it would."

"Does the glamour affect you, then?" Abigail asked.

"I doubt it," Chloe said. "Unless it was something really powerful. I mean—" she stopped and took a big gulp of air, squinting.

Abigail could feel her, just a bit. It wasn't like a river, but there was something there, something solid. Like a great big stone rooted in the ground under their feet. Smaller and less powerful than a river, but there all the same. She wondered where it had come from, how long it had run in the family. "I felt that," she said. "So, could you influence someone?"

"Nah," Chloe said.

"Bev's got a worshipper, his name's Maksim," Abigail said. "He used a Russian mobster. Someone sent a whole squad of them after Bev, and they spent the rest of the day cleaning her place. He stuck around after it wore off. Now he takes care of her place and does stuff for her river."

"Like Melvin, with Mrs. Canal," Chloe said. "But that's not the only reason to pay your respects. You live by a river, it's always good to have that river on your side. Better than having it against you."

"True," Abigail said. "But I wonder where your immunity came from. Did your family always have it, or did you develop it as defense against orisha and things?"

"Orisha?" Chloe asked.

"Spirits, local gods, genius loci, that sort of thing," Abigail said. "Like rivers."

"No idea," Chloe said. "We've always been here, and we've always been this way, far as I know. But it's not like there's anybody but my gran and maybe Brent who would know."

They fell silent again, and Abigail focused on her breathing. She wasn't used to long, endurance runs; did a lot more sprinting, up and over the Heath. But Chloe wasn't going that fast, and she was determined to keep up.

"It was nice to have company," Chloe said as they came to the end of their planned route. "And nice to have someone I could talk to about things. Do you know anybody else around our age who's special?" Chloe asked. "Other than the rivers, of course."

"There's the Quiet People," Abigail said. "They live in tunnels under the center of London, have done for over a century. They can move earth."

"Like on that Avatar cartoon?" Chloe asked.

"Dunno," Abigail said. "Never seen it. Anyway, they've got a whole big community there, and they've started up a school above-ground so they can choose to live outside of the tunnels if they want. There's a whole lot of kids and teens. They're a bit odd, like something out of a history show on the BBC, and they don't like bright lights, and they don't like loud noises. But if you're interested, I could introduce you. And if you're willing, they may be having a field trip to a library, soon, and could use some people to help keep things on track."

Four.

Bev was having a river cleanup day, and Abigail had been volunteered to help out. So had Brent, Neckinger, and all of Fleet's foster kids, including Nicole. Their job was to walk the banks of the river, pick up trash, and keep a lookout for various plant and animal species Bev wanted a count on. Abigail was entrusted both with the roll of extra bin bags and the clipboard to list things they spotted. Both went in her backpack until called for.

Once Bev had given them their marching orders, they fanned out, with Brent and Neckinger (who was Nicky, today) closest to the river and Abigail and Nicole further up the bank. On the other bank were Fleet and the rest of her kids.

"If I'm going to be picking up trash, I'd rather be doing it in my own watershed," Brent said.

Nicky shrugged as she grabbed half a Styrofoam container and stuffed it in her bin bag. "I'd rather pick it up now than after it's been in the river forever," she said.

"Maybe Bev will organize a day for everyone to go do this in Hanwell," Abigail said.

"And what about my river?" Nicky asked. "Nobody's going to come do a cleanup of my river."

"Talk to Fleet," Abigail said. "She knows how to handle things when you're underground."

"What you need is better clean water standards," Brent said. "Not a trash pickup."

Nicole, Abigail noted, was not actually picking up any trash. "You missed that one," Abigail said as Nicole walked past a plastic bag caught on a twig.

Nicole shot her a withering glance. "I'm not a servant," she said.

"None of us are," Abigail pointed out. She grasped a piece of paper with her pincer, and put it in her bag. "You think you're too good to get your hands dirty?"

"Obviously," Nicole said.

"Don't have to get your hands dirty, that's the whole point of the pincers," Abigail said.

"Still not a servant."

"And neither are we," Abigail said. "If you're not going to help, then go back to Bev and tell her so. Or Fleet."

Nicole heaved a loud sigh and rolled her eyes.

"I'm serious," Abigail said. "If you're not going to help, we don't need you here. You'll just get in the way of the people who aren't lazy and pretentious. Or are you too scared of her to stand up to her?"

"I'm not scared," Nicole said. "Not of you, uggz girl, nosy parker, wizard's toady. And not of a river, either." (Though she didn't insult any of the rivers, Abigail noticed.)

Abigail gave her the look her mum used on doctors or nurses or social workers or whoever when they weren't listening or talked down to her because they lived in a council flat.

Nicole held out for a bit, but then she made a face and muttered "fine," under her breath. She stomped over to the bag she'd walked past, yanked it off the twig, and stuck it in the bin bag. "Happy now?" she said snottily.

"Sure," Abigail said, though she was disappointed that Nicole had stuck with them instead of leaving when she was challenged.

"I didn't have to do anything like this back home," Nicole said. "We had servants at home to wait on us."

"What was it like?" Abigail asked. "Where you grew up."

"It was big, and wild, and free," Nicole said. "Nobody ever made me do anything, and we'd ride wherever the Queen wanted and play games with the trees." She sighed. "And I had all the pretty clothes and things I wanted, and servants to dance rushing to meet my every whim. It was lovely. Not like here." She whacked a tree with her pincer. "Where the trees are dead and I'm forced to work like a slave."

"Pretty sure the actual slaves in the world get treated a lot worse than you do," Abigail said. This was the girl Brent and Nicky were looking up to? She was so whiny. "All you're being asked to do is pitch in and help with the same work everyone else is doing."

"It's demeaning, the way the goddesses here work," Nicole said.

"So, like, how did people become servants where you're from?" Abigail was pretty sure she already knew. "Was that a job choice or was it an aptitude thing?" If Abigail found herself in a foreign land, no family, no friends, but there was another English person around, she'd want to meet them. And from what Peter had said, Molly was probably closest to the kind of fae Nicole had grown up with, while Thistle was very different. But Nicole had never come to the Folly to meet Molly.

"Of course not," Nicole said with a sniff. "Some fae are simply born inferior, and their place in the Queen's domain is to serve their betters. Fleet tells me that it's different among humans, that no human is naturally subservient." The look she gave Abigail said she plainly doubted that.

There were all sorts of things wrong with that statement, and Abigail could give her chapter and verse on why people liked to label others as inferior—Miss Redmayne was really thorough about power dynamics and who benefitted from them and how. But Abigail thought some other subject might be more useful. "So, what was your place in the Queen's domain? She was your mum, wasn't she? Were you a princess?"

"The Queen rules alone, and the Queen is immortal," Nicole said. "She has no need of an heir. I was a beloved favorite."

"Beloved favorite, but she traded you away for the other Nicole easily enough," Abigail said. She'd heard the whole story from Peter, when he'd got back. "Was she going to change the two of you back, eventually? Or was the plan always that you were going to live in the human world?"

Nicole didn't answer. Which was answer enough.

"Seems to me the Queen's way is pretty rotten, if it led her to raise a girl for twelve years and then trade her in for a new model," Abigail said.

Nicky broke the silence. "There's a Snake’s head fritillary," she said, pointing to a small purple and white flower.

Abigail got out the clipboard and noted it. "Thank you, Nicky," she said.

Five.

Bev hadn't showed up yet when the bee lady arrived at her house. Abigail didn't mind, because it was a nice day—the usual spring drizzle had let up—and Sugar had been keeping her company while Abigail sat in Bev's garden and enjoyed the rare sun.

The bee lady—Melissa Oswald, granddaughter of Hugh Oswald, rusticated practitioner—drove a mud-splattered car obviously chosen more for its reliability than its style, and Sugar ducked into the bushes when it pulled into Bev's driveway.

Melissa was short and thick, with short hair bleached and dyed a variety of fading colors, wearing tight jeans and a low-cut black shirt. She got out of her car and frowned at where Sugar had disappeared. "You know foxes can have worms and other parasites, right?" she said. "And some of them can be passed on to humans."

"They're pretty clean animals," Abigail said. "And I wash my hands after petting them." If she thought they might have parasites, she'd never have allowed them in the apartment where Paul might catch it.

"Still," Melissa said. She walked over to where Abigail was sitting on the ground and studied her. "You're not a river."

"Nah," Abigail said. "I'm Peter's cousin, Abigail Kamara."

"Bev said you're curious about all sorts of things, and that you were helping her with Brent and Nicky," Melissa said.

"Sometimes," Abigail said. "Bev's not here yet, and Maksim isn't either." Bev was supposed to introduce them, and help guide the conversation to the questions Abigail wanted to ask.

"Bev called me a couple of minutes ago, said she was running late," Melissa said. "And that you'd be here, and you'd probably have questions for me. About me." She sat down cross-legged beside Abigail on the grass and leaned back on her hands.

"I'd offer you something to drink," Abigail said, "but I don't have a key, and Maksim's not here." Though really, as much time as she was spending here these days, she ought to have one. Between Bev's school and her river patrols and the other stuff she had to do as a river goddess, her schedule was pretty erratic. Maksim was usually around, but even he disappeared sometimes.

"It's fine," Melissa said. "How's Peter?"

Abigail shrugged. "Same as always, except now he's buckling down to study for his detective exam, so he's even more boring than usual."

Melissa laughed. "Tell him hello for me, when you see him."

"I will."

Melissa lay back on the grass and closed her eyes, breathing deeply.

Abigail studied her. Bev had invited her here to meet Melissa because Melissa was special. Something to do with bees, though neither Bev nor Peter had been very clear on what exactly that meant. Abigail closed her eyes, breathed slowly and evenly, and waited to see what she felt.

It took a few seconds to notice. It was quiet, and subtle, but there was a drone like the sound of a busy motorway in the distance, low and constant, but with a subtle ebb and flow that felt organic. It wasn't quite like the way the rivers felt, and it wasn't anything like when Peter or Nightingale were casting a spell.

"What brings you to London?" Abigail asked. "Bev didn't say."

Melissa shrugged. "Just for a visit. Bev's a friend, and it's nice to be around someone who's a little like me. We're going out to a pub later, meet up with some others."

"Like you," Abigail said slowly. "So, are you a genius loci for bees?" Abigail asked.

Melissa snorted. "No. But I'm not exactly normal, am I?"

"What are you, then?" Abigail asked.

"Hell if I know," Melissa said. "I'm myself. That's enough."

"Yeah," Abigail said.

"But it is nice to have friends who understand what that's like. There are plenty of odd people in the countryside … but very few of them are odd in the way that I am."

"Not many who have magic, you mean," Abigail said. "Or are magic, or do magic."

"I thought it was all stories my granddad told, when I was your age," Melissa said. "When I was visiting him, I'd lie awake in my room and listen to the bees hum outside my window, and wish I were magic. It would be an adventure, I thought, and it would give me a reason for why I didn't have an easy time making friends. Then I realized I was magic, at least a little bit, and it wasn't romantic and it didn't lead me to any grand adventures or anything. It was just one more thing making me different to all my classmates."

"Why didn't you come to London, then?" Abigail asked. "You can find anything in London."

"Still have to know what you're looking for, don't you?" Melissa said. "It's not like my sort of people put adverts in the phone book, and it's not like my granddad would've known where to look. Also, as a general rule, I tend to prefer places where the bees are happy and thriving, so it's not like I was going to move here or spend enough time to find them on my own. I grew up in Birmingham, and that was too big for me. London would be worse. So now Bev and I trade visits."

Abigail couldn't imagine not wanting to live in London, but she supposed that if everybody lived here, there wouldn't be anyone to grow their food, and also, things in London would be even more crowded than they were.

Bev walked up out of the river, waterproof bag over her shoulder with all her school things. She sometimes commuted to Queen Mary University that way, depending on how much she had to carry with her, because it could be quicker depending on traffic and also it allowed her to combine her commute with a quick patrol. (She always complained that it would be much easier if she could swim down Regent's Canal to the Thames, but apparently Mrs. Canal would consider it trespassing and there would be trouble.)

"Sorry, had to deal with some knobs throwing garbage in Mum's river in Putney," she said, stripping off the oversized swim cap that covered her dreads as water streamed off her. "Let me just get changed."

"No hurry," Melissa said. "It's a beautiful evening, and you have a lovely garden."

Bev said thanks, and went inside.

There was, Abigail noticed, a bee sitting on Melissa's nose.

"So, if you're not the Spirit of the Bees," Abigail said, "how do you commune with them?"

"I just do," Melissa said. "I trust them, and they trust me, and we work together to see that the hives are safe and have everything they need to thrive. And the honeybees give me honey in return."

There had to be more to it than that, because the bee on her nose was a London bee, and how would it know Melissa to trust her? Could it feel her, in some way?

"Bees are smarter than you think, but they don't care about a lot of things humans care about, and the reverse is also true," Melissa said.

The same could definitely be said for foxes, which made Abigail wonder if the bees Melissa worked with were as different from other bees as the talking foxes were from regular foxes. "What do they care about?"

"The hive," Melissa said. "A single bee on its own is dead. No future. No place to live, no way to store what it collects, no way of creating the next generation. It's only when they come together and form a hive, and each bee plays its part, that there's any meaning to life."

"So, are you here in London trying to find a hive to be part of?" Abigail asked, trying to find the common thread of Melissa's conversation.

Melissa laughed. "I'm not a bee, I'm a human," she said.

"A community then," Abigail said. "Bees aren't the only creatures that do better in groups." Foxes could live alone, but talking foxes rarely chose to; the same was true of humans and all the others she'd met in the demi-monde.

"Yes," Melissa said. "Even here, nobody's exactly like me, but at least they know what it's like to be different in this way. And besides, I doubt any two humans in the world are exactly alike. People aren't like bees, that way."

And One Time She Didn’t.

Abigail had half expected Sugar to come out of the bushes once Bev and Melissa had left, but she hadn't, so Abigail had walked down to the bus stop at the end of Bev's street for the hour-and-twenty-minute trip home.

By the time she got off the Northern Line at Kentish Town station, twilight had set in and it was almost dark. She'd texted her parents, so they knew where she was and weren't worrying, but she was hurrying anyway because the temperature was dropping and she was getting cold.

As she turned into the estate past the playground, she saw a low, red form streak across the green to a nearby bush.

"Hey," Abigail said. "It's just me. Tell Sugar goodnight for me?"

But there was no answer. And as the fox darted to the next bush, she realized why: it wasn't a talking fox, it was too small. Just an ordinary London fox.

She hoped nobody had been around to see her mistake, and went home.

#fanfiction #fanfic #rivers of london #five things

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thesporkidentity · 9 months

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an incomplete list of texts i sent as i slowly lost my mind over the second book of rivers of london, because i fully intend to drag at least one more person into this pit with me. come read with me i promise you're gonna feel so good and normal over this book, come closer

wow okay peter remains the absolute horniest bastard ever. is he a tits or an ass man? yes

oh we are just getting the surface levels hints of nightingales MOUNTAIN of unresolved PTSD and i am very 🥺

you ever feel like a character was written specifically to appeal to you? i'm getting so many tantalizing hints and i KNOW he's going to destroy because he's catnip. he is bait specifically designed to hurt my feelings

also his description makes me think of lee pace or like, 90s/00s paul mcgann and that's just Very Good and i'm being deeply not normal about it

also nightingale reads as SO queer to me, and the potential in fic to explore what that means insofar as how he has navigated the changing landscape of queerness from 1900 to present day is so tantalizing. i don't care that the author says he's not, in this case the author is wrong lol

i must say, i do not care for simone. if we absolutely MUST have hetersexual nonsense in this book i would like beverly back please. she was cool and not a cheating homewrecking jazz groupie lol

still not impressed with simone. i mean, far be it from me to judge a woman's grieving process and all, but she doesn't seem very broken up over her within-the-week dead lover. i mean, i LOVE peter and all and he's hot shit, but immediately falling into bed with him? sus

in conclusion bring 👏 bev 👏 back 👏

also peter, buddy, WHAT ARE YOU DOING

he's a disaster so even though i'm screaming DON'T DO THAT i am unsurprised he is being led around by his dick by a beautiful woman throwing herself at him

but i just. i Don't Trust Her. she doesn't make sense, and i can't tell if this is a case of male author writing wish fulfillment and thus not giving the hot girl adequate motivation of her own

or whether i AM supposed to find it suspicious the way she basically doesn't mourn the man she homewrecked who died very suddenly and then IMMEDIATELY jumps into bed with the magic cop investigating his very probable murder

and i REALIZE the only way to find out is to keep reading, it's just frustrating that women are written poorly so often that, even if he's written good women before, i still have to debate with this is a subtle clue or just Male Author Syndrome

oh my god he finally twigs that this may be weird behavior. peter. bud.

at least he got it before trying to sneak her past folly wards?

side note: god lesley really got the short end of the stick. like, her face fell off, her teeth are a fucking mess, and she probably has brain damage. she got royally shafted

peter "i'm totally straight" grant, talking about how he wants to take a muscly guy by the shoulders and kiss his cheeks and making sure to mention how many phone numbers her got while canvasing the gay bar.

hmm sure, jan

look i KNOW peter is Incredibly Horny All The Time when near any attractive woman, but simone appears from NOWHERE half dressed while he's canvassing for the jazz vampire and he just skives off like that? while looking for a potential killer? that doesn't seem like him he's not that irresponsible. that smells like conspiracy and glamour and i don't trust herrrrrrr

like, peter was already horny wanting to motorboat mama thames (lol don't think i didn't catch that pun) last book. but this book has been a whole new level of horny, and peter may be distractible but not THAT distractible surely

another side note. i love molly and nightingale's weird friendship they've developed living basically with just each other for decades.

oh jesus that's fucked up

oh the severed head is talking

oh. oh no. it got worse

peter, darling, beloved, is now REALLY the time to be talking about how hot your boss is? like i appreciate your dedication to the thirst but time and place, bud

oh never mind i forgive you nightingale is so fucking cool, i get it, i love him

he's so good. the most tragic backstory and perfect stiff upper lip old fashioned english gentleman on the outside, and then just below the surface he's a daredevil and a bit of a bitch and he fucking CARES just SO MUCH and have i mentioned how much the casterbrook wall HURTS ME?? this was revealed in the last book but i just remembered it and it stabbed me again

okay i'm done

i feel like peter has miscalculated making a deal with his cousin to teach her if she aces latin. that's gonna come back to bite lol hope you like teaching too smart for their own good teenagers cuz that's gonna be your life now

"but sir, what do we do if you die??!" "well, that doesn't seem like it will be my problem at that point :)" he's such a bitch sometimes and i LOVE him, mother

ohhhhh. oh no. the pale lady looked like molly and now molly is obviously not okay after she died, that resemblance wasn't just coincidence she definitely knew her 😢

and this is the first person peter has killed, no matter how accidentally. and nightingale is back in the hospital with his chest infection. wow everyone is just having a terrible time right now

okay. i realize that as a memory for him this probably isn't a GOOD one, it's from the war and probably much scarier and MUCH more traumatizing than he makes it sound with his dry narration of it. but god. nightingale knocked out two TANKS. by himself. with his mind. fucking sexy lol

oh damn it why can't they just let me be horny about how powerful he is instead of immediately following it with the fact that he was rear guard and making emotional that it means he was the one trusted to watch over and protect the rest of his men while they retreated as that one final shield between them and enemy fire

hhhhhhhholy shit what did simone DO to mama grant???!!!!

she just bitch slapped her!

OH MY GOD SHE TRIED TO HOMEWRECK HIS PARENTS TOO???

she's PLAUSIBLY IMMORTAL???

fuck i was right she was sketchy as hell!!

she's a fucking jazz vampire and she's been glamouring and sucking him dry! buddy, get to dr walid STAT for a brain scan and make sure she's not turning you into cauliflower!

peter don't you make excuses for her you KNOW it's possible, stop lying about your mum and trying to make her feel better you need to take her in she's a m u r d e r e r

i mean, glamour yes i realize but god, frustrating

good lad peter, i see you fighting it 💪🏾

ohhhhhhhh. oh fuck. she didn't KNOW. she didn't know she was from the 40s and killing people. oh this is bad

nightingale, attempting to show concern: "that was not the most intelligent thing you've done" xD 10/10 nailed it buddy

umm, nightingale? this may not be the black and white moral situation you think it is to go in guns blazing...

it's both funny and little sad how militant both molly and dr walid are when nightingale is injured like. i do LOVE when the person who is SUPPOSEDLY in charge gets lovingly bullied, but it hurts because that's also probably the ONLY way to make him take care of himself is if they FORCE him. and peter's not any better, he's gonna need bullying too

i do love when they team up though. molly and nightingale ganging up against peter like. nightingale gets the special treatment and a hot cocoa from molly, but peter gets the dog's leash and smug little "i'm on bedrest :)" or nightingale foisting the rest of his kidney pie on peter while molly is out of the room then grabbing his empty plate back to pretend he ate it all himself when she returns xD

the cases are interesting and all, but i think it's the core characters that are really the standout of the novel and the reason i keep reading even while i'm asking myself things like, but WHY is she killing via vagina dentata instead of literally any other assassination method? i think it's also why simone stood out so much. she HAD no background that we were told (until now) aside from being sexy. which of course i now know was intentional

"this is your brain, which is not only clean and unsullied by thought..." i love dr walid. it probably says something about me that my favorite characters all have to be at least a little bit of a bitch

oh no i'm having feeeeeelings about both nightingale and peter trying to keep the other out of the vampire raid to shield them from the emotional effects of it, just from opposite ends. nightingale doesn't want peter to have the pain of ANOTHER death on his hands, this one purposeful as opposed to the accidental death of the pale lady, so he's trying to just cut him out of it. and then peter ALSO doesn't want NIGHTINGALE to have the weight of more deaths on his soul and wants to protect him from what he sees as the unfortunate necessity of having to off someone who isn't intentionally hurting someone but still may be too dangerous to live. nightingale trying to save peter from his bleeding heart and peter saving nightingale from his practicality overriding his morality 😭 i just love when characters try to take care of each other in mirrored ways

uh...uh oh peter...no i don't think those are the police OR nightingale's paratrooper buddies

okay the audiobook is fucking excellent though, his infomercial voice while extolling the virtues of doc martins is KILLING me

oh this posh wanker. "oh what is feeding on people but another form of exploitation, and we all know there's nothing wrong with exploiting workers, equality is morally bankrupt anyway" god i hate you already you're insufferable

like of COURSE a dining club oxford nose wipe would think that way. he thinks he's sooooo slick and original with his chimeras they're such exciting new COL crimes but it all just boils down the the exact same rich white bullshit mentality

he would hate it if he realized how dull and banal his villainy is once you strip back the shock value of the trappings. just another entitled prick who views people as things, fuck this dude

i'd be tempted to say the faceless man's signare smelling like pork was a dig at david cameron and piggate if i didn't know it was written a few years too early for that lol

peter: oh no nightingale is going to give me SUCH a bollocking nightingale, obviously so relieved he's alive: very much does NOT give him a bollocking and instead tells him how impressive it is that he didn't just immediately die against the faceless man

"for a terrifying moment i thought he was going to huge me, but fortunately we both remembered we were english just in time. still, it was a close call" 🤣🤣🤣

oh ouch peter. just use all his dead friends against him. effective but also, low blow

god he wants so badly for peter to be right, too, that they and HE doesn't have to kill anyone anymore, that how that it's not Just Him ALl Alone they might have the support structure for other options. oh no i want this to work so badly so that hope is validated, but i just know something is gonna go wrong

welp

i didn't like her but i didn't want her fuckin DEAD you know?

and now the ones left standing have to deal with the trauma and the fallout

oh lesley :( they're both trying so hard to be normal about it and they're such good friends 🥺

LESLEY DO MAGIC?

LESLEY JOIN TEAM FOLLY???!!

also don't think you've been sneaky there and that i haven't noticed SOME sort of thematic symmetry of lesley struggling with having lost her face involuntarily from magic, and the faceless man having voluntarily masked himself. involuntary vs voluntary loss of identity. i'm sure there will be more parallels in the next book but like. i see you. i see you setting up face themes with these two

hopefully with lesley regaining her face somehow and thus reclaiming identity while the faceless man is unmasked thus losing the identity he built for himself and revealing the true one he hid. maybe hopefully? i want good things for lesley and bad things for the faceless one.

#rivers of london #under a readmore because it's so long and i don't want to owe even MORE of an apology to everyone in the tag than i already do

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1016anon · 1 year

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Title: Thinking About Crashing Author: 1016anon Fandom: Bridgerton Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton/Kathani Sharma

A/N -- I tweaked the timeline a little: the Conservatory Ball takes place five days after they meet in the woods, not the same evening.

A/N 2 -- Revised 4/27.

Who knows

He didn't care that he was being abominably rude. He absolutely refused to dance any longer with Miss Something-or-Other. Not when he had been aware of his omeg-- Katha-- Miss Sharma all night and her eyes on him.

She and her party of two others had arrived mere moments before he'd stepped foot in the Conservatory with his family; despite the crush of the dancefloor and the overwhelming cloud of gawdy smells which hovered like sewage floating on the Thames, there was never a possibility that he would miss her scent.

As soon as he'd caught the slightest hint of her (i.e. immediately upon entering), it had taken everything in him not to rush to her side like some besotted, newly mated alpha; that his recently-blunted sense of smell and recently-lackluster appetite had suddenly reversed course did not bear mention. The intensity of the smells which bombarded him and the swift awareness of exactly how little he'd eaten since he last saw her had made him nauseous, but it was all secondary to the gnawing urge to follow her scent and ensure she was well.

Follow her scent, ensure she was well, then carry her off to somewhere to renew his claim on her-- both carnally and scensually. After which, he imagined he would stand beside her all night, hand possessive on her waist, snarling at any alphas or betas who dared sniff in her direction. The only time he would not have his hand on her waist was when he had two hands on her waist while they were dancing.

A part of him-- the part which had been taken over by a hive of overenthusiastic mating hormones and was therefore to be ignored-- thought this an excellent plan to be enacted immediately. Another part of him was vehemently opposed; he'd had to clamp down on the impulse to turn around and leave the ball posthaste. Still another part was morbidly curious, poking at the tether like a child would poke a snake (i.e. a dangerous endeavor, but irresistible no matter what wiser voices warned).

Anthony did not know how it was possible that he was divided into so many parts, because yet another portion-- and the largest one by far-- was simply an eternal shore of yearning, and he was like dead marsh water without a tide.

"Bridgerton!"

Was there no corner of the grounds into which he could escape? The last thing he wanted was to speak to Fife and his ilk.

"I owe you a drink."

"Whatever for?"

"With you as the prize catch of the season, the rest of us shall receive a respite from the mate-minded mamas this season indeed."

Ah yes, that lovely gift from his mother. She'd taken exception to his sudden cessation of any and all courting following the morning he met Kathani, especially since prior to the season's beginning, he'd informed the family of his intention to mate.

Before his mother had made that announcement to what may as well have been the entire ton, he'd planned to show his face for the absolute minimum interval acceptable in polite society, then retire for the evening or escape to the club. There was absolutely no chance Kathani would not be at the Conservatory Ball; in keeping with their agreement, he'd put measures in place to ensure their separation. Now, all of those safeguards had gone up in flames.

There was a prickling feeling at the back of his neck.

"Enjoy your freedom while it lasts."

His (mate)-- his (omega)-- his

"You, too, will soon submit to this ridiculous rigmarole of courtship--"

She had followed him outside. Anthony couldn't help but send a tendril of ?

To which he received an emphatic push the scensory equivalent of shhh! keep talking! (the better part of valor: he did not comment on her contradiction)

"--squiring every eligible doe around town until you're barely able to see straight."

He could feel her narrow her eyes, to which he responded with one part defensiveness (it's true!) and one part contrition (I know).

"Is one hind unlike any other?"

Her attention was so sharp, he could smell burnt lemon rinds.

"Simply pick the least objectionable and get them wed, bed, and bred. Then you can return to more pleasurable pursuits."

It seemed impossible that the others did not notice the anger wafting towards them, but he held his tongue. What was she doing behind the shrub? Was she--?

"And more pleasurable partners."

He could barely hold back his laughter at the thought of her crouching behind the bush to eavesdrop; he didn't because she would scorch his tongue if he agreed with the three jesters. Anthony felt mischief spark in him.

"You may be cavalier, but if I must leg-shackle myself in mating, the doe in question should have more to recommend them."

!!!

Come join us, I shall introduce you to these fine gentlemen.

"Do not tell us you're hoping for a love bond."

Fife's sarcasm was as pungent as his pipe, and equally pleasant.

"Love's the last thing I desire."

You are deliberately goading me.

"But if my children are to be of good stock, then their doe must be of impeccable quality."

(shoe leather damp with a dog's slobber)

"A pleasing face, an acceptable wit--"

(charcoal and sulfur set on fire)

"--genteel manners enough to credit a viscountess--"

(tooth-cracking biscuits covered in powdered sugar and baking soda)

"--it should not be so hard to find."

(blankets left in bleach)

"And yet the debutantes of London fall short at every turn."

(cloud of dust along a desert-dry road)

Are you certain you don't want to meet them?

(mud pie with stinkbugs)

"You want the best, perhaps the Queen will finally name a Diamond. Save you some trouble-- at least of choosing them. Wooing the piece will be a different story, indeed."

(scent of the quiet before a typhoon)

"I shall have no problem there."

He nearly drew her out with that one (burned cinnamon, cloves, black pepper), but she managed to stop herself when Fife mentioned the smoking room.

"I shall be there anon."

(cold river water on a hot summer day)

There was a loud clang! as he turned the corner.

"Why didn't you join us, I would have introduced you," he teased.

"And explain how we know each other? You are rather shortsighted," she huffed. "Besides, your olfactions are not discreet."

"My olfactions aren't discreet? I could smell you quite clearly through the foliage-- whatever was in Fife's pipe must have dulled their scenses. It's a miracle they didn't notice you."

"Are they your friends?"

"Who, Fife, Cho, and Lowe? We are acquainted-- though it's difficult not to be in a group so insular."

"A necessary evil, then."

"Every court has its fools."

"And you one among them," she smiled, pear blossoms in spring.

He couldn't help but reach for her; she couldn't help but allow him to reach.

"You followed me."

She looked away.

"I needed some air. It is too warm inside."

"Any other reason?" the first bite of a late summer apple.

He dearly wanted to take his gloves off; slowly peel hers off as well.

She tried to take a step back; couldn't.

"I should-- I should go. It has not been two weeks, we should--"

"Are you well? Have you been sleeping well?"

"I-- no. I have not."

"Nor have I."

A brief flash of image-- scent-- lying together under a gazebo.

It was enough for them to jerk away from each other, scalded by the warmth of comfort. They each took one, two steps back, as if distance and willpower would make the connection thin to brittle straw. She exhaled shakily; though her face remained impassive, her scent was sharp with cumin. He didn't know what kind of olfactions he was making-- usually his face was enough to give away his feelings.

She straightened, regaining her composure. She was so fierce and tall, plate armor gleaming gold yet repaired one too many times. Something in him pulled, and pulled, but he put his hands behind his back and remained immovable as an emperor.

"I came to ask," she said, voice measured and even, "if you plan to find a mate this season."

"It had been my intention to do so. I have since abandoned the endeavor."

"You need not change your plans for my sake. Do they recognize bond-release in England?"

"We do," he nodded stiffly. "Engaged couples are required to give voice to their intent."

"It is the same in India."

"You would release your claim on me? And ask me to do the same?"

"I think we must. Our illness-- the pining sickness should not be this strong-- we should not have it at all! We spent less than an hour in each other's presence."

He had nothing to say to that, as it was all true. With a jolt, he realized he'd only said his omega's name once: while they were mating.

In keeping with English tradition, Anthony stepped closer to her and went down on bended knee. He looked up at her, hands clasped tightly behind his back, his neck exposed.

"Anything within my power to give you."

Even this.

Especially this.

She placed her hand carefully at his throat, thumb and index finger pressed at the base of his jaw.

"I give you permission to seek another."

Her voice was steady, but he felt her throat close and chest tighten.

"You are discharged of any obligation due to me as your--" she stumbled. "As your mate."

He stared at her. Then:

"As my omega decrees, so shall it be."

And it was done.

Some had described the dissolution as an unpleasant fizzle, one beta had described it as an embarrassing fart; their connections had been based on convenience than any real courtship. Simon, when he'd tried to break the bond with Daphne, had described it as taking Will's fist to his chest, then driving a spear through it for good measure.

Anthony, however, felt nothing. They were both panting as though they'd been running from hyenas; her eyes had a shadowed, glazed quality to them; Anthony felt like he was walking through a barrel of molasses when he re-entered the ballroom.

The breathtaking pain came the following morning: an iron-tipped cat o'nine tails clawed his ribs, ripped his kidneys, broke his back. Anthony stumbled out of his chair and threw up on the floor, shaking and drenched in a cold sweat. Benedict was yelling something indecipherable, though Anthony could smell the disgusting mixture of shaving cream, bile, and rotted meat.

It would have been a mercy to pass out on the floor, but he'd had to endure the entire hour fully conscious, listening to his mate crying out on the other side.

#bridgerton #kathony #fanfiction #abo au

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