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qqueenofhades · 6 years

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I was catching up on your (many) new fics & I had the sudden image of the awesome foursome getting back from a mission & Iris is chilling next to Jiya waiting for Garcia. Something they did brought Iris back but not Lorena which makes them all very ?? but also IRIS!! So the team keep fighting Rittenhouse with this small human living with them & I'm just, very emo about it & blame you. Feel free to write a little thing if you're so inclined (or big thing whatever i'm not the boss of you).

Ahahaha. Well. This ended up being 25% cute and 75% pain, which is… probably not what you were looking for, but then again, you did ask me, and we know I can be a cruel mistress. So. Have some feelings on Flynn + his choice to leave his family + his general shock + Garcy angst + etc. Let’s just pretend this is the end of 2x07, even though it won’t be.

Summoning @extasiswings, @prairiepirate, and @lucys-preston to share in the pain, as usual.

Everyone has never been more ready to get out of the Lifeboat in their lives by the time they’re landing back from 1919. It has been, to say the least, extremely tense with Rufus, Wyatt, Flynn, and Lucy navigating their first mission as a foursome, especially with Wyatt and Flynn determined to out-snark the other, Lucy and Flynn both dragging Wyatt, and Rufus clearly wondering if it would be that detrimental to the cause if he accidentally murdered them all. They have managed to make sure that women still get to vote, with a very unexpected assist from Emma, but they’ve all been unable to shake the feeling that that favor is going to come with a pointed sting in the tail. What if they get back and Rittenhouse has changed something else, arranged a nasty surprise, or – who knows, they’re evil, it could be anything? Not that the team needs it. They’re still glaring at each other as they undo their seatbelts and the door cycles open, practically tripping over everyone’s legs in their haste to get out. They start down the stairs. Jiya and Jessica are waiting for them, as usual. And –

What the hell?

Flynn, the first one down the steps, stops dead in his tracks, so that everyone nearly boomerangs off his back. Then they look, and can’t blame him for his confusion. There’s a young girl, about eight or nine years old, sitting next to Jessica and hugging her around the waist, looking cautious but expectant. She has honey-brown hair that is starting to turn darker, held back with a pink headband, and long, skinny legs in striped tights. At a nudge from Jessica, she stands up, examining the frozen time team critically. Then she says, “Hi, Daddy. You’re late.”

Wyatt briefly looks thunderstruck, as if he might have somehow returned to not only just a wife but a child, but then he, and everyone else, realizes that the girl is looking at Flynn. Flynn himself has turned into a total statue, mouth half-open, eyes stunned and anguished and desperately disbelieving all at once. He snaps his mouth shut, opens it again, tries for a word, and can’t. Then he manages, “…Iris?”

The girl frowns. “Yes?”

Flynn remains where he is for a moment longer. Then he unfreezes, practically runs down the stairs, and straight past Iris, Jiya, and Jessica, barely looking where he’s going as he blunders down the corridor and out of sight. Wyatt, Lucy, and Rufus stare after him, as while yes, it’s shocking to return and have another lost loved one appear, at least it isn’t the first time. “Wait,” Rufus sputters. “Wait, is that his – that’s his daughter?”

“Yes?” Jiya frowns at him. “She’s been here for the last month?”

“No, she definitely hasn’t.” Wyatt, despite his anger at Flynn, is clearly the only one who can guess what might be going through his head. “She was – she was still dead when we – “

Lucy glares at him, as if reminding him to maybe not say that in front of a nine-year-old, and Wyatt shuts his mouth smartly. Then he glances around with a rather hopeful expression. “So, is her mom here too?”

“No,” Jiya says, still frowning. “We only found out she was alive and had been taken in by some orphanage like… six weeks ago, remember? So we went and got her and – I’m guessing by your faces that wasn’t the case when you left.”

“No,” Lucy confirms at last. “When we left, she and Lorena were… not here.”

Wyatt glances around one more time, as if he’s still really hoping that Lorena is somewhere, and he can get to see Flynn struggle with the same situation he was forced into, maybe mess it up just as much. There is a very awkward silence. Flynn still hasn’t returned, it does appear to be just Iris, and – was this Emma’s version of paying them back? A poisoned favor? Maybe trying to get Flynn to quit the team – as they proved almost from the get-go, they were dead in the water without his intelligence on Rittenhouse, and they’re definitely going to hurt if they lose him now? Figured that if all the team really wanted was their loved ones, give them strategically back and kill their motivation? But can it be bad, can it be wrong, if they do?

“Where did Daddy go?” Iris asks at last, shyly. “Is he not happy?”

“I’m sure he’s very happy,” Lucy says automatically. “It was – a tense mission, that’s all, he was probably just a little… a little startled. I’ll go find him, all right? I’ll be right back.”

Wyatt makes a move as if to grab her arm, or otherwise prevent her, and Lucy glares at him until he backs off. Then, still in her 1919 clothes, she hurries down the corridor after Flynn, wondering what on earth she is going to say. She hates herself for the brief spark of relief in her stomach that Lorena isn’t here – if it was awkward with one dead wife returning, two would be more than anyone could handle. But how could she think that? She knows how much Flynn wants them alive again, how he hasn’t given up hope of saving them. But that’s different than thinking that he could go back to them, or that he wants to. Yet they can’t just put Iris back out on the street, especially if Lorena is still dead and Flynn is her only living parent. He never counted on saving only one of them. It was always both.

“Flynn?” Lucy reaches his room and knocks tentatively on the door. “Flynn? Are you in there?”

No response, but she can hear choked breathing. It’s his right to be alone now if he wants to be, but after a pause, she pushes the door open anyway.

Flynn is sitting on the bed in his black suit, head in his hands, shoulders heaving in a silent, breathless, uncontrollable way that worries Lucy, until she realizes that he’s crying. She feels as if she’s walked in on him doing something far worse, because she’s never seen him look half this undone and vulnerable and shaken to his very core. She could shut the door and pretend she hasn’t seen it, but instead she hesitates, then walks over to perch gingerly on the bed next to him. “Flynn?”

He tries to answer, can’t get words out, and rubs both hands over his face. He stands up, then sits down, then stands up again, pacing back and forth. Finally he says croakily, “Is it – actually her?”

“I don’t know,” Lucy says carefully. “We don’t know her. You’d have to see. It… seems like it is.”

“She’s nine.” Flynn stares at the wall. “She was five. When she was killed. She’s lived four years somehow, lived four years – what, in an orphanage, is that what they said? Thinking that both her parents were dead, the way I thought – the way I knew! – she and Lorena were? We found her and brought her here? Who brought her? She – she can’t stay. She has to go.”

“Flynn.” Lucy reaches for his hand, trying to pull him back to sit next to her, but he doesn’t let her take it. “I know you said you’d walk away if you got your family back, but if Lorena isn’t here – you’d – what, send her back to the orphanage? She must have just been trying to get to know you again after that separation. You can’t – you can’t just – let her go.”

Flynn looks at her bleakly. Both of them must hear the echoes of her hanging on his arm in 1780, sobbing that he could still be a father, he still could – but only if he didn’t do this final, unforgivable thing, and kill John Rittenhouse, an unarmed, terrified child. At last he says, “It’s Wyatt who thinks he can bring his family to the bunker, and everyone else just has to live with it. Not me.”

“Everyone here thinks she’s already been here for a month. I’m sure Rufus won’t mind. I don’t. And Wyatt – he – he can’t really object to you having your daughter here if he brought his wife, he – “

Flynn snorts, as if to say that the one thing that is decidedly not constraining or influencing his decision in this matter is what Wyatt Goddamn Logan thinks. Then he says, “Denise’s family is still living on the outside, aren’t they? They have some sort of protection. We can send Iris there. She’ll be happier than she is living in this – here. Or we can just – ”

“Garcia.” Lucy reaches out again and manages to grab his hand this time. “Garcia, don’t send her away. Don’t. Don’t send her away. Rittenhouse could change their minds, they could come after her again, they – I know, I know you don’t feel like you could be her father, but at least ask her, at least – “

Flynn rubs his eyes. Another pause. Both of them can sense that at least part of Lucy’s desperation comes from the fact that it’s now been two rounds of miraculously restored loved ones, and still no Amy. That she can’t (and wouldn’t) counsel Wyatt to leave Jessica, and even less can she stand to see Flynn walk away from Iris. That if it was her, if it was Amy there to greet her when she walked off the Lifeboat, there would be no question of her not staying. That she knows how Flynn has come to think otherwise, but she still can’t stand it.

“I can’t,” Flynn says at last. “I – she needs to go. She needs to go to Denise’s family. That’s what’s best.”

“Don’t you want to look at her first?” Lucy’s voice, despite her best efforts, cracks a little. “Not even once?”

From the expression on Flynn’s face, he would give his entire world to do that, but he doesn’t know if he has the strength. Just as he’s trying to muster himself up for a response, there’s another timid-sounding tap at the door. “Daddy?”

Flynn turns into a statue once more, head turned away, as Lucy glances at him, glances at the door, sees that he’s not going to get it, and gets to her feet. She opens it instead. “Hey, honey. Hi. You – do you know who I am?”

“You’re Lucy,” Iris says. “You and Daddy are friends.”

This is true, though there’s a certain tilt to her head as she says it that makes Lucy suspect that at nine, this clearly whip-smart girl already wonders if there’s something else to it. She’s not the very young child that Flynn remembers; if she’s been living in an orphanage for several years, thinking her parents are dead, she’s probably had to grow up fast, and there might not be the same sweet softness in her as before. There’s a pause as they continue to look at each other. Then Iris peers past Lucy into the room and says, “Daddy?”

Another shudder runs down Flynn, but he doesn’t quite turn his head.

“Daddy?” Iris sounds frustrated. “Daddy, why are you being so stupid?”

Lucy thinks that, God love him, this is often a merited question when it comes to Garcia Flynn. Iris walks past her and over to Flynn, then taps insistently on his shoulder until he glances up, eyes almost drowned in tears. Even sitting on the bed, he’s still taller than her, and he obediently tilts his head down to look her in the face. He closes his eyes and almost can’t seem to stand it.

“Daddy,” Iris says. “Are you mad at me for eating those cookies before you left?”

Flynn opens his mouth, then shuts it. He heaves a strangled gasp of a sigh that cracks at the very end. “No, draga. No. I am not mad about that. No.”

Iris glances at him shyly, biting her lip, still half expecting to be punished, shuffling her feet. “Where did you go?” she says, looking at his suit. “Was it fun?”

“F…” Flynn could probably think of many words for their adventures, but that would not be one. He blinks, clearly boggled. “Do you know about – what I do?”

“You’re a time traveler.” A proud little smile crosses Iris’ face, as if other kids have fathers who are insurance adjusters or car salesmen or middle managers or burger flippers, but she has one who outdoes them all. “You fight bad guys in the past. That’s what you were doing for me and Mommy.”

Flynn lets out an unsteady chuckle, which cracks again. “I suppose. Yes.”

“So?” Iris persists. “Where’d you go?”

“We… went to 1919,” Flynn says. “We were making sure women got the right to vote. Which we did, yes, so that’s good. Now, I – I think you need to maybe get your things, and we’ll get you ready to go to – “

“Go?” Iris frowns. “Go where?”

“We decided that you were going to live with Mrs. Christopher’s wife and their kids, remember? Before – before I left.”

Iris cocks her head and gives him the patented A Flynn Smells Bullshit look. “No, we didn’t.”

“Yes, we did,” Flynn persists doggedly. “We definitely discussed it.”

Iris’s chin begins to quiver. “No, we didn’t.”

Lucy clears her throat. “Garcia.”

Flynn glances up at her, even as his hand has hovered over Iris’s shoulder without quite touching her, as if the instant he knows she’s real, he’s going to crumble. He said to Lucy that he’d let Iris jump into his arms one time, if he ever saw her again, but it appears he can’t even stand to do that. “Iris,” he says. “Iris, you – you’ve been apart from me for four years. I thought you were – never mind. I’ve never stopped looking for you, but I’ve done – I’ve done very bad things. I – many of them. I’m – I don’t think I can – I think it’s best that we don’t live together anymore. Okay?”

Iris reaches out and grabs his face in both her hands. “Daddy,” she says decisively. “You’re saying a lot of really stupid things right now.”

Despite herself, Lucy chokes on a painful giggle – yes, this child is a Flynn, all right. Brutally honest in all situations, no time for nonsense or other people’s feelings, and refusing to sway from what she’s made her mind up on. For his part, Flynn’s heart seems to have given out a little when Iris touched him. He raises one hand to cover hers, then the other. Gently peels her small hands free, swamped in his larger ones, as he’s clearly about an inch from a total breakdown. “Ir – Iris – ”

“I’m not going,” Iris says, half a sob. Fat tears start to roll down her cheek, and she stamps her foot. “I’m not going, I won’t go, I won’t go. Please. Please, please, please. Daddy, don’t, don’t make me go. I want to stay, I want to stay here, I don’t – please! I don’t want to go!”

Flynn flinches as if he’s been shot. His hands are visibly shaking where they are holding hers, as Lucy wonders if she should step in, but still feels this is something they’re going to hash out on their own. Flynn starts to get up, and Iris throws her arms around his waist, clutching him desperately. “NO!”

At that, Flynn throws half a panicked look at Lucy, as if actually expecting her to step in and drag his hysterical daughter away from him. Both of them are at a loss, until there’s a second knock. From outside, Jessica’s voice says, “I’m sorry if I’m interrupting, but is everything okay in there?”

“Jessie, he’s trying to make me go!” Iris wails. “He’s trying to make me leave!”

There’s a pause. Then the door opens, revealing Jessica Logan with a confused and almost angry look on her face. “Excuse me, he what?”

“Look, this is – “ Flynn is looking even more distraught. “You don’t – “

“I’ve figured out that things were different before you left,” Jessica says firmly. “I get that. But look. I remember that she’s been with us for a month, and I like her. If you don’t think you can do it, for whatever reason, then fine. Obviously, I’ve been in a weird position with all this myself. I know it’s a lot to get your head around. But if I’m living here, so is she. I’ll take care of her. Clear?”

Flynn looks mildly stunned, as does Lucy. Iris, still sniffling, detaches herself from her father’s waist and runs to Jessica instead, and both Flynn and Lucy stare at it for a long moment. Garcia Flynn’s daughter hugging Wyatt Logan’s wife, because somehow they’ve succeeded (or Rittenhouse has) in that. Jessica rests her hands on Iris’s shoulders and glares challengingly at Flynn, who appears to have nothing to say. Finally he manages, “You… don’t mind?”

“No,” Jessica says simply. “Clearly, I don’t. You think about whether you do. Come on, Iris. I bet I can find a few more of those cookies.”

With that, she gently shepherds Iris away, the door shuts behind them, and Flynn and Lucy are left alone, still completely gobsmacked. Finally Flynn turns and says, “I should… get changed.”

This is clearly a hint that he wants Lucy to leave, so after a moment, she nods and does so, stepping back out into the hall. She doesn’t leave, however, waiting until he emerges in sweatshirt and cargo pants and looks surprised to see her. “Lucy – ”

“Just…” Lucy doesn’t know what she’s trying to say. It’s not in any way her fault that Lorena didn’t come back too, she still feels guilty over the brief relief, and she knows he must be struggling. “Leave it. For now. All right?”

Flynn looks as if he isn’t sure, but after a pause, follows her down the hall to the kitchen. Jessica has gotten Iris calmed down, Wyatt is clearly at a bit of a loss for words himself, and everyone’s heads turn at the sight of Flynn, waiting for some sort of continuing meltdown. Iris hunches her shoulders. Rufus and Jiya exchange glances. Finally Rufus says, “So… if you’re going now… that’s cool and all, and I’m actually like 12% sorry to see you leave, but – ”

“I’m not leaving.” Flynn’s voice is rough, and he clears his throat. “The job isn’t done. The fight isn’t over. Rittenhouse is still out there. I’m not going anywhere.”

Rufus blinks. It has clearly not occurred to him that Flynn would feel a shred of loyalty to the team after he’s gotten back at least half of what he was in this war for, and it startles him. “You’re not?”

“No.” Flynn blows out a breath. “I’m staying.”

Wyatt also opens his mouth, then shuts it. There is another long pause. Flynn and Wyatt both glance at Iris and Jessica, then back at each other, and something at last, unspoken, passes between them. Then Wyatt nods stiffly and excuses himself, as Lucy looks back at Flynn. So does Iris.

“Daddy,” Iris says. “Please.”

Flynn rubs both hands over his face. At last he says, “You can stay for tonight. Then we’ll talk about this again tomorrow.”

“But I – “

“I said tomorrow, Iris.” He looks at her as if he still can’t get enough, he can’t stop, he can’t believe every breath she draws, and yet, he is by no means reconciled to any idea that he can do this forever, that he has anything beyond days, or hours. Sand in the glass, running short. Passing, passing, time that cannot be gotten back. Lost, lost, lost.

Garcia Flynn gazes at his daughter for a final moment. The heartbreak, the pride, the love, the devastating grief in that look is so raw that Lucy can feel it in her own chest, coiling around her heart like thorns. He holds it an instant more. Then, quietly, he turns on his heel, and goes.

#lucy x flynn #garcy #garcy ff #oh hai flynn family feels #yeah this hurt me #i am sorry?#proflucypreston #ask

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izayoichan · 5 years

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Hayle smiles at his husband as he carries the last few boxes of Christmas stuff into the living room, Chris holding a large tree, Hayle rummaging the box for the thing that holds said tree in place.

“So he talked to you?“ “Yep, even got a hug!” “Impressive, you want to knock on their door then, and I'll get the gamers?“ “Oki!”

Hayle knocks lightly on the door before looking inside, smiling at them.

“Want to wake the sleeping one and come down? We have located all the Christmas stuff now.”

Vy looks at Hayle nodding, then looks down at Hayden.

“Hay Hay, it's time, wakey wakey. Let's go decorate for Christmas!” “Okay, just give me 5 to wake up a bit.”

Stretches before he pulls himself up, sitting next to Vy yawning slightly as his body slowly waking back up again.

“So, ready to decorate?“ “Yes, let's go decorate!“

Smiles brightly and nods grabbing Hayden's hand leading him back downstairs, glowing green. Hayden a little surprised he isn’t hiding behind him as he usually does.

“So, Hwoarang’s special is kinda kicking someone into the air, and then just not letting them fall back down?” “Yeah, kinda lame I know.”

They talk about the different Tekken figures is ended by a knock on the door, Chris opening it just a few seconds later.

“We have all the Christmas stuff ready now, if you two are ready?” “Sure dad, ready for... well a whole lot of Christmas?”

Looks at River with a smirk, knowing just about how much Christmas decorations they have all over the house normally.

“Okay. Time to go do family stuff you only see on the movies!”

Rylan just smiles, taking Rivers hand, leading him back to the living room.

“I swear there are more boxes here every year...

“Looks at the mountain of boxes, and Chris already doing what is his standard job to put the lights on.

“Welcome to the insanity that is Christmas decorating in my family...” “ That's a lot of boxes.”

Chuckles, and slaps his hands together and pulls back sleeves.

“So, what must I do, Mr Wards?” “Oh! That's a lot of stuff!“

Vy looks at all the boxes as the two joins the rest, Hayden still waking up, but shakes his head, sure it was even more boxes than before. Chris taking command, much like he did every year

“Well start opening boxes and we can put all that goes on the tree over here, and everything else over on the other side.” “ Alright.

Rylan starts opening one box, recognizing it as tree decorations, looking up at River.

“Take this over to the tree and I'll check the next one.”

Vy looks around then looks up at Hayden.

“I don't know what to do? What are you going to do Hayden? Then I can just follow you or help you...”

His voice drifts off as he realizes he doesn't know anything about Christmas decorating. River taking the box to the tree and actually dangles a couple of tree decorations on his hair and comes back to help Rylan opening more boxes and waiting for him to notice.

“Well how about I open boxes like Rylan, and tell you where to take them, and then we work from there?”

He takes Vy with him over to the boxes opposite of where Rylan is, and opens the first one, rummaging through it a little.

“Hmh, I need your help here Vy, this box is mixed if I put the things that need to go over to the "tree pile" can you go over with them?” Yes, I can take the boxes!”

Looks up at Vy holding a few small boxes with ball-like decorations, that Vy takes from him and walks over to the tree with. Rylan on his end has opened the second box, going through what is inside it...

“Hmh, seems to be for the outside really.”

Turns to look at River, just staring at him for a while, before he suddenly bursts out in laughter making everyone turn their heads and look at them. Vy looking at them wondering why they are all laughing, suddenly noticing the decorations in Rivers hair

“I have myself a Christmas prince now.” “Oooh! I get it!” He's a Christmas tree!“ “Yeah, a proper Christmas tree prince”

Rylan tries his best to stop laughing but has no success with it, finally gasping for air, shaking his head.

“Only you could pull that one off.. and please don't say it makes me Princess Anna” “But Anna, don't you want to buiiild a snowmaaaan?!”

River laughs and grabs another box stealing a kiss from Rylan on the way.

“Love you, princess!”

Hayden snickers, handing Vy a couple more things to bring over to the tree, the rest of the box being things they normally have right here in the living room, pushing it aside, and then opening another box. Vy carrying the things to the tree putting them down and looking them over, eyes big at all the gold and red decorations, especially the gold trinkets.

“Pretty!”

Shakes head and returns to Hayden, waiting for what to help him with next.

“This seems to be random indoor decoration, want to get me another box to check, we can keep this one here Vy?

Hayle lifts a box passed them all looking and Rylan and River.

“Can I borrow your Christmas prince, and carry the outside stuff outside. sometimes dragon form comes in handy, like when decorating the outside of a house!” “Cheater!” “Not my fault you can't fly!”

sticks his tongue out at his husband, and continues towards the door and the outside. Rylan still lauguing, getting a kiss from River who is ready to follow Hayle outside.

“Perfect, this one goes outside as well, so here, you can carry this Mr prince.” “Great! I shall start carrying the boxes outside. Wait... dragon form? Does this mean I get to see a real dragon that isn't familiar? Yusss! This winter prince is on his way!

Starts carrying the boxes outside Vy looking at Hayden for a bit

“What type of dragon is your dad?” “Ehm... Ice dragon, I never really asked more than that? You can go out and help if you want, I'll get my dad to help me sort instead?” “Okay and I'll be right back!“

Takes the box that Hayden has just proclaimed being an outdoor box, just to get a little peek at Hayle and what kinda dragon he is.

Hayle carefully takes ornaments in his claws as River comes out.

“Ah, help has arrived, these claws are quite bad at small boxes. Mind taking some out?

Looks at River, the snake-like dragon form seemingly hovering just above the ground. Vy looking at them, quickly putting down the box, realizing Hayle is not the same type of dragon as him, something that made him a little sad, quickly finding his way back to Hayden, looking a little bummed.

“That's one big arse lizard!” “Calling a god a Lizard is a touch risky, huh? But since eating you would upset one of my kids... I guess I can let it slide

Hayle grins, showing a rather sharp row of teeth, River staring wide-eyed at him then opens the box and removes the ornaments.

“Yo, Mister Ward. Maybe you can lift me to the roof and I can put the decorations?” “And why not, get on.“ “Oh my god! I am going to Daenerys Stormborn!”

Laughs and hops onto Hayle's back, carrying a whole bunch of decorations.

“This is awesome! That's it,”

yells downstairs, purposefully mimicking Flynn Ryder.

“Guys, forget the castle! I want a dragon!” “Watch it now dragon rider, keep your balance.”

Lifts off the ground to get to the top of the house, allowing River to put the decorations up and then get back up before heading down for even more decorations.

“Handy this.. much easier than shifting forms all the time.”

Rylan carries boxes around the house and starts decorating with his father, leaving the living room, minus the tree, hearing Rivers voice from outside

“Well someone is having fun!” “I think they both are.. and to think he was once a fairly vengeful god.” “I admit, it is hard to think of him that way.

Hayden hands Vy some off the decorations then takes some for himself leading him over to the fireplace.

“Just put things where you think they look good and tell me what is on your mind. I want to know, although I can guess?”

hangs stockings on the fireplace, trying to see if he can get the garland on it as well. Vy pouts a little, then starts hanging the socks and decorations, having a clear preference for the gold and shiny ones.

“Oh, I Just... I thought he'd be a dragon, like me... but he's different... he doesn't have wings!”

Stops and lets his half-dragon form show, showing his horns and scales to Hayden

“I guess I had hoped I had found another like me... I thought he was. he can feel your heart too, so I thought...” “Ah, if I remember the stories my uncle told me, they are an Asian type dragon, very old family... but I never really thought to ask.”

Put's a hand on Vy shoulder.

“I'm sorry, he wasn't what you thought.. do you miss your family a lot?”

Vy looks at Hayden and shrugs. Kinda doesn't want to admit to Hayden that though he has a notion of who his mother is and how they look like, he has never actually "met" her and that he doesn't really have any family here.

“I... I guess...” “Or is it more you wish there was more of your kind around?”

Fidgets with a very pretty gold flower

“Can I keep it?”

Has a hunch there is more too it, but also not wanting to tread on any toes, looks at the golden flower he holds in his hand.

“I would say yes, but that's not mine to give, I'll ask my dad though when he comes back from flying River around out there. And if it special too him, I'll find you one, that can be from me instead?” “I wish...”

Stops himself, looking at Hayden, before he says he wishes he had an actual family and that Hayden would be that family. When Hayden asks about the flower, he looks at it and smiles.

“I'd love a flower from you instead... “

Places the flower on top of the fireplace and smiles.

“What do we decorate next?” “Everything but the tree, just take things and put it where you think it fits.”

Slowly but surely they were all getting done with the decorating, leaving only one thing left. Slowly the others found their way back to the living room, all impressed with the decorations.

“It’s mostly Vy, he is very good at this.” “I got to ride a dragon, all is good.” “So we heard, Daenerys, does that make me John snow?” “You know nothing, John Snow!” “That's Ygritte, not Daenerys!”

they all chuckle before they gather around the tree. The final piece of the evening, ready to be decorated.

🎶

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codynaomiswireart · 6 years

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A Neighbor in Need

A little drabble I had written a while back in response to this post by @sarahhollier, where it was observed that in the episode “Fitzherbert, P.I.”, when Eugene takes on a job as a cabby, he accidentally drops off an old lady in front of Varian’s house of all places. Just wanted to jot down a quick drabble of what it may have been like if had Varian noticed the old lady’s plight and decided to help her out. Enjoy!

Varian was just adding the last parts of distilled vinegar to his latest concoction when he heard the sound of a carriage drawing up quickly outside his house. “Huh…” Varian wondered aloud, having not expected any visitors to the manor that day. “I wonder who that could be.”

Being so far away from Corona’s capital it was, of course, not every day that Varian and Quirin had visitors drawing up in horse-drawn carriages to their door. And with Quirin having left hours ago to tend to the fields with the other farmers in the village, it was clear that he had not been expecting anyone to come calling that day either.

“I wonder if it’s an emergency!” Varian thought to himself, quickly going to the window to have a look, half expecting to see members of the royal guard and perhaps a currier coming up the front pathway. Instead, Varian got to the window just in time to see Flynn Rider of all people hurrying a carriage away in a cloud of dust, and a slightly-dazed old lady Varian did not recognize looking about her in confusion as Flynn drove away.

Varian blinked a few times. This was certainly an unexpected way to start the day.

“But, this isn’t my house!” Varian heard the old lady shout after Flynn. But Flynn was far out of earshot now, and Varian watched as the old lady continued to look about her, obviously not sure what to do now. Varian had no idea what was going on, but he knew he couldn’t just leave the lady in front of his house like that.

“Better see what’s up,” Varian thought as he headed for the front door. Peeking his head out, Varian called to her from across the way.

“Hey! Um, excuse me miss! But I couldn’t help notice you-”

“Oh! Oh my!” the lady cried out as she turned towards Varian’s voice, looking very startled as her eyes caught sight of him. Again, Varian blinked a couple times in confusion. Was everyone behaving oddly today?

“Oh!” Varian suddenly exclaimed in realization, pulling back the welding mask he had been wearing for protection as he had been working. “Oh, no no! It’s ok! Sorry about that ma’am. I…just forgot I was wearing this thing.”

“Oh, th-that’s quite all right,” the lady replied, somewhat breathless from the quick scare. “I say. Do you know where I am young man?”

“In Old Corona,” Varian replied as he set his mask on the stonework by the front door, Ruddiger trotting up behind him at his heels as he approached the confused old lady.

“Oh dear, oh dear,” the lady muttered to herself. “That fool of a cab driver! I told him I needed to get to my cottage at the foot of Mount Saison, not to the castle in Old Corona!”

“Well,” Varian attempted to offer helpfully, not very much liking how the old lady was talking about his revered hero. “Maybe he just misheard you or something?”

The old lady sighed. “Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps. Oh, now what to do though, what to do? Oh! Say, young man! Would you happen to know anyone else with a carriage or a horse who could bring me to my cottage?”

“Well…” Varian began, holding a gloved hand up to his chin in thought.

“Several of the families here own wagons for moving hay and produce and things, but the only real carriage we have is under lock and key in the neighbor’s shed. And most everyone’s out in the fields right now, so…”

“Oh, I see,” the old lady replied, her tone disappointed, but also with an undertone of patience. “Well, thank you anyway young man. Hmm…” she then hummed in a concerned way, looking about her again and up at the sky. “Well, there’s no way I’ll get there before nightfall on these old legs of mine. Would there happen to be a place I could stay the night do you think? I would have to pay for any hospitality later I’m afraid, but if anyone would be willing to let me rent a space for the night, I would be ever so grateful.”

Varian paused to think. Of course there was many a neighbor in Old Corona who would be willing to help this poor woman out (and even if there weren’t, Quirin as the village leader would gladly provide a place for her to stay the night in the castle), but it just didn’t seem fair to Varian that this sweet old lady couldn’t get to her cottage just because Flynn dropped her off at the wrong place, and then none of those who knew how to drive a cart or ride a horse were available to help. Surely there must be something that Varian could do to help! Varian wasn’t much for riding horses (plus most of them were with the farmers in the fields doing their share of the work anyway), but perhaps he could think of something else…

“Ah!” Varian gasped with a snap of his fingers. “I have an idea! You may be able to get to your cottage today after all ma’am!”

“Oh really!?” the lady exclaimed. “Oh, that would be just wonderful! But, uh, how?”

“Just give me a sec! I’ll be right back!” Varian said over his shoulder as he ran to the castle’s shed. Flinging the door open, Varian scanned around the myriad of boxes and shelves and lumpy sheet-covered shapes that lined the walls. Catching sight of the one he was looking for, Varian pulled the tarp off of the fairly sizeable shape, revealing one of his latest inventions underneath.

“Maybe this will do, huh boy?” Varian asked Ruddiger, who cocked his head to the side in confusion as he looked at the invention. It looked almost like a miniaturized carriage, but instead of having a horse or a pony hooked up to it for the motor power, there was instead some sort of spindly thing on more wheels, with a seat and pedals. Ruddiger couldn’t make either heads or tails out of it, but he figured all those wheels and gears were a good sign that it would do the job, so he gave a small coo of approval.

“Yeah, I think so too!” Varian replied enthusiastically as he grabbed the handlebars and walked the contraption to the door.

“Oh my!” Varian heard the old lady exclaim once again as he carefully guided his contraption down the small steps leading up to the shed. Luckily, Varian had designed this particular invention to have a very light but sturdy frame, so he was able to get it down on his own without much hassle.

“What is that!?” the old lady asked in astonishment.

“This is…!” Varian began with a classic showman’s tone…and then stopped, and ended up saying rather sheepishly. “…Heh, Actually, you know, I-I haven’t come up with a name for this thing just yet. But I did get the idea from looking at diagrams of rickshaws from East Asia, and then adding a pedal-powered motor device at the front.”

“You made this!?” the lady asked, clearly flabbergasted.

“Oh yeah,” Varian replied nonchalantly. “Just something I whipped up a few weeks ago while I was studying Newton’s laws of motion.”

“What a minute…” the lady said, looking thoughtful for a moment before exclaiming, “Oh, of course! Old Corona! The castle! Miraculous inventions! You must be that wizard boy I’ve heard about! Quirin’s son Varian, yes?”

Varian cleared his throat at this, trying to hide his annoyance at being mistaken for a wizard yet again. “Ahem, uh, y-yes, yes I’m Varian. But, uh, I’m an alchemist, not a wizard.”

“Oh…” the old lady replied, still looking confused.

“Easy mistake I know,” Varian continued. “But technically it’s not magic. It’s science.”

“Oh,” the old lady repeated thoughtfully, then asked, “…Is there much of a difference?”

“Uh, YES!” Varian answered, quickly catching his almost rude tone spurred on by his passion for the subject of science. “Ahem, I mean, yes, yes there is definitely a difference ma’am. You see, science deals with hard evidence and laws about how the world works, while magic is some sort of capricious, undefined force that people make up in fairytales. Not at all scientific.”

“Huh…” The old lady paused again thoughtfully. “I suppose that makes sense…Though…”

“Though what?” Varian asked.

“Though in all the fairytales I’ve heard – and believe me young man, I have heard many a fairytale in my day – it seems like magic does have rules it has to follow. At least, that’s what the legendary Lord Demanitus was said to have told people. That’s what my own great-grandfather told me anyway. And then there’s the dear princess and her magical hair! Why, everyone in the kingdom knows that it magically grew back overnight, and-”

“And,” Varian interrupted, feeling more and more uncomfortable with the conversation getting more and more steeped in magic, and skating quite close towards something Cassandra had made him promise to not speak to anyone else about. “And I’m sure there’s a perfectly logical, scientific explanation as to why. Anyway, um, sh-should we look to being on our way then?”

“Oh, yes of course,” the old lady said, seamlessly moving on to the change of subject as Varian helped her into the small carriage. “I’m so sorry to have taken up your time like this young man.”

“No problem,” Varian said over his shoulder as he mounted the wheeled contraption at the front, Ruddiger quickly leaping in to sit next to the lady as Varian began to pull away. “Oh, is it all right if he comes with us?” Varian asked, motioning to Ruddiger.

“Oh yes, I don’t mind,” the old lady said, patting Ruddiger’s head and scratching his ears as he set his head onto her lap with a quiet trill.

“Ok, well, here we go then,” Varian signaled as he began pedaling down the pathway out of Old Corona, taking care to not go too fast as he navigated between the ruts left in the road from the larger carts.

“Amazing…” Varian could hear the lady say under her breath from her seat behind him in the carriage, watching the scenery go by as they headed into the forest. “Just like magic!”

Varian rolled his eyes at that remark…but also couldn’t help but feel a warm glow of pride as well at having his invention praised so. “It’s about time…” he thought to himself rather somberly.

For the next half hour, Varian and the old lady steadily made their travels to the patch of forest where her cottage was located, and on the way talked about more everyday things (thankfully nothing having to do with magic), and Ruddiger ended up having a nice long nap on the way. Eventually, Varian pulled up to the cottage that the lady had identified as hers, and as Varian helped her back down from the carriage, Ruddiger giving a small purr of delight as the lady gave him a quick scratch under the chin in farewell.

“Good-bye Ruddiger!” the lady cooed at him, then turned to Varian. “And thank you Varian! You really are a fine young man! Here, allow me to pay you for-”

“Oh, it was no big deal,” Varian replied bashfully, waving his hand in dismissal at the idea of receiving any payment. “I’m just glad I was able to help you out Miss…” Varian suddenly realized he had never asked for the old lady’s name, but she complied to answer his unspoken query.

“Ethel,” she replied. “Ethel Schmitz.”

“Well, it was nice to have met you Ms. Schmitz,” Varian said, shaking Ethel’s hand.

“And you too Varian,” Ethel replied. And then added, “Your father must be so proud of you.”

It took all of Varian’s efforts to not let his countenance fall at these words. Instead he managed to respond with a stuttering, “Uh, y-yeah, um, thank you,” and turned back to get onto his contraption and head home before more could be said on the matter.

“You take care now dear!” Varian heard Ms. Schmitz call to him from her cottage door. “Thank you! You, too!” Varian called back with a wave over his shoulder, hearing the door to the cottage shut behind him as Ruddiger settled back down onto the cushion of the carriage, ready to enjoy another ride on the way back home as Varian pedaled his way underneath the emerald canopy of trees.

“Yeah, someday…” Varian muttered to himself out loud as he went, his thoughts not helping but turning to what Ethel had just said to him. “Someday dad, I will make you proud…”

#tts #tangled the series #fan fiction #varian #ruddiger #fitzherbert p.i.

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rememberstilinski · 7 years

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Fic Recs of 2017

This year, there seemed to be a blossom of new writers and works from those amazingly talented authors. I would like to show some appreciation for the works that I have absolutely fallen in love with. These are all fics that stay with me in my heart and have made me feel something with the words written on the screen.

Ad-Listed (Stiles Stilinski) by @thelittlestkitsune

We all know by now that I absolutely adore anything Lau writes. She just has such a knack for pulling in readers from the get go. And the plots! Oh my god, the plots she comes up with are so different and so unique from anything I’ve ever seen on this website. But this one, this is one of my all time favorite Stiles Stilinski fics.

Take-Backs (Stuart Twombly) by @thelittlestkitsune

And another one of Lau’s fics that I love. This is just, ugh. Hold on, give me a minute to compose myself while I run through the emotions that come along with this fic. There’s not a lot of Stuart Twombly fics on this site and I hate it so much, but this one has to take the cake. Lau captures Stuart in such a way that it’s almost hard to believe. This is a quick must read! So get on it, read it!

The Recruit (Mitch Rapp) by @were-cheetah-stiles

If you are a Mitch lover like I am, I assume it’s because of this series. For me, this series made me love Mitch Rapp before reading the books or seeing the movie. Cat is probably the best Mitch writer I’ve ever read from (besides Vince Flynn, of course). Before I started reading this, I had seen like the first five or six chapters on my dash all the time and I was soft of iffy at first, simply because this wasn’t a writer I was familiar with. I’m a person who doesn’t like change and I usually stick to the same authors for everything, but boy am I glad I read this. Not only did I find a series to love and look forward to, I made a best friend. Support Cat and read this fic, you won’t regret it.

The Mistake (Stiles Stilinski) by @were-cheetah-stiles

Like I said, I don’t stray very far from my favorite authors. I usually read everything they post. I actually have post notifications on for most of them, so I won’t ever miss what they have blessed me with. Anyway, back to the series. This series has thoroughly fucked me up in the best way possible. I loved everything. I loved how it has so many similarities with Friends. Bless. I loved the smut, I loved the angst. I just overall loved this fic so much and this is definitely something you need to read. I’m waiting...

Vapor (Stiles Stilinski) by @sarcasticallystilinski

I don’t even know where to start with this fic. I love Hay and I love her writing, but she honestly broke my heart with this one. It was so heartbreaking and I really thought that it would turn out okay and the two would live happily ever after. If you’re looking for a fic with happily ever afters, this is just not the one. But if you’re looking for a good cry, then you found the right one. Honestly, it doesn’t matter if you’re looking for a heartbreaking story or something with tons of fluff, this is just an amazing story and I highly recommend it.

It Ain’t Me (Dylan O’Brien) by @sarcasticallystilinski

There is one fic in the whole world that has fucked me up in the worst way possible. Every time I hear this song, my heart breaks just a little. I will be randomly going about my day and hear this song and I have to sit down and take a breather. This is something that has truly buried itself in my heart and I will always carry it with me. I may be overreacting about a fictional story, but trust me when I say this really hurts to think about. It screwed me up and I won’t ever fully recover from it. I’ve told Hay of my love for this fic and how I carry it with me, and she had to go and mess me with my telling me something about this fic. I will let her tell you if she hasn’t already. But our beautiful relationship is coming to ruins because of it. (Just kidding, I love her so much and I love that she has the power to break my heart like she did with this fic!)

In Heat (Stiles Stilinski) by @writing-obrien

Girl, let me tell you something! I didn’t know that Alpha!Stiles was a kink until I read this. It’s so freaking smutty and I looooooooveee it! I was at the pool when this was first posted, I was with friends and I had to maintain such a poker face when I was reading this, and I have read smut around family members and I take pride in my poker face, but this had me rethinking just how good I was. I’ve probably read this 3964572 times and it still take my breath away. Chloe is one of my absolute favorite writers and I was so happy when we started talking because I look up to her and I love her so much! It only makes sense that my favorite fic of hers is on my 2017 fic rec.

I’ll Keep You Safe (Stiles Stilinski) by @minhosmeanhoe and @sarcasticallystilinski

I totally forgot about this one until I was thinking of more fics that have screwed with my soul. Camille and Hay are just the most talented people and they always have the ability to mess with my emotions. I’ve cried reading their fics on multiple occasions. I remember reading this one and let me tell you, the water was really working that day. I was sitting at the computer and my family walked in to see me crying. They got out of there real quick. Another thing I should add is that I loved all of the Moulin Rouge references in this. That is my movie and that, like literally everything, always makes me cry.

25 Lives (Stiles Stilinski) by @sincerelystiles

What do I have to say about this? I honestly don’t even know. It’s safe to say that this is by far one of my absolute favorite series’ ever! Soph, you know how much I love this! I’ve told her on multiple occasions. The series isn’t very far along, but from the get go, it managed to snatch up my heart and I can’t wait to see where else it goes. It’s so clever and it’s beautifully written, so make sure to check it out!

Curiosity Killed The Cat (Stiles Stilinski) by @mf-despair-queen

It wouldn’t be a proper fic rec if I didn’t put Mal on here! This is my absolute favorite fic of Mal’s. The smut is so smutty and I really just love how this is written. I’ve read every one of her fics many times and this always takes the top. I love the relationship that the reader and Stiles have when it starts and I really just love how it played out. I can’t tell you anything in particular that I love about this work, but I will always love this one!

Getting Along (Stiles Stilinski and Isaac Lahey) by @dumbass-stilinski

I’ve been reading Steff’s work literally as long as I’ve been watching Teen Wolf. She was the first person I read Teen Wolf smut from and I have not gone back since. I love this fic especially because of the fact it features my boys, Stiles and Isaac. I love threesome fics and this one is my absolute favorite threesome work. I love Stiles and I love Isaac. Put me (reader) in the middle and you’ve got yourself what I call a good time!

Kurai Kobito (Void!Stiles) by @dumbass-stilinski

I’m not the biggest fan of Void fics just because they’re so dark, but this is where my love for Void grew. This series is so well written and it’s more than just smut. It goes in depth with how Void actually felt something warm and fuzzy for someone and I love stories like this. When love has the power to change someone for the better or even change the way a character perceives something, I love it so much. I admire that she took so much time to research Japanese mythology and made the fic believable. It played so close to the story line of the show just because she wasn't’ careless and she took the time to make sure everything made sense.

Seeing Blind (Stiles Stilinski) by @honeymoonmuke

I love soulmate fics, I love them so much! I’m so happy that out of the blue one day I was bored and decided to binge Hannah’s masterlist. This is amazing and I loved it from the get go. I love the idea of soulmates and colors, this was so played out well. She did it in such a unique way and this is my favorite fic of Hannah’s. Believe me when I tell you it was hard to choose just one to mark as my favorite, but this is it and I can’t wait to see what she comes up in the new year.

#rememberstilinski's fic recs

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dweemeister · 7 years

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2017 Movie Odyssey for-fun awards

The 2017 Movie Odyssey Awards are being posted sometime soon, but, as is tradition on this blog, here are some for-fun honors and dishonors based on a year of watching 200+ films that were new to me this calendar year.

Actor I wanted to smack most in the face: Mark Wahlberg, The Happening (2008)

Good lord, he was AWFUL. “Planning on murdering me in my sleep?” “WHAT, NO!” Here’s Wahlberg talking to a plastic tree.

Attempted political messaging, but says less than it wants: State of the Union (1948)

Frank Capra, you are better than this!

Attempted religious messaging, but says less than it wants: Conflagration (1958, Japan)

Best Film Title: What Dreams May Come (1998)

Best individual cue from an original score: “End Titles” from Independence Day (1996), composed by David Arnold

Best lyrics passage from an original song: From “No Wrong Way Home” from Pearl (2016 short)

One blue-green world, round as a pearl, doesn’t matter which road you take, you’ll wind up in the same place. That’s not philosophy, it’s geometry, and if things don’t look the same, well it’s only you who’ve changed.

There’s some interesting messaging and rhyming going on here. Damn.

Best Moment: An act of sportsmanship, followed by a grandstand finish, Akeelah and the Bee (2006)

If you have kids and they haven’t seen this movie, find this movie. If you haven’t seen this movie, find this movie.

Best Montage: Body-switching and “Zenzenzense”, Your Name (2016, Japan)

Best Movie Dad: Raymond from My Life as a Zucchini (2016, Switzerland)

The first non-biological father to win here, I think. It matters not, though. He is wonderful here.

Best Movie Family Member, non-parent: Aunt Mattie (Clara Blandick), A Star Is Born (1937)

For supporting Esther’s dreams of going to Hollywood without fail. You go, Aunt Mattie. She really is not in this movie long enough.

Best Movie Mom(s): All of the Boatwrights (Queen Latifah, Alicia Keys, and Sophie Okonedo) and Rosaleen (Jennifer Hudson), The Secret Life of Bees (2008)

Again, a first in that these are adopted parents. Thanks to a good friend of mine for introducing to me the book.

Best on-screen friendship: The friendship between all the orphans in My Life as as Zucchini

Best use of non-original music (and best musical callback to a past movie): The many uses of “You’ll Never Know” from Hello Frisco Hello (1943) appearing in The Shape of Water (2017)

Hello Frisco Hello remains on my watchlist… we’ll get there someday!

Best dance segment (for two): Rita Hayworth and Fred Astaire in “I’m Old Fashioned”, You Were Never Lovelier (1942)

Best dance segment (solo): Donald O’Connor in “A Man Chases a Girl (Until She Catches Him)”, There’s No Business Like Show Business (1954)

Best sword fight: Errol Flynn v. Basil Rathbone, Captain Blood (1935)

Yeah, sorry folks who expected Rey and Kylo Ren v. Praetorian Guards or Kylo Ren v. Luke here.

Bestiality: The Red Turtle (2016, France/Belgium/Japan)

SPOILERS!!!

Biggest Disappointment: Marnie (1964)

Oh god, this may be the first Hitchcock movie I truly loathed (nor do I think it will be the last… I’ve basically seen all the greats by now).

Biggest (pleasant) surprise: Pear Cider and Cigarettes (2016 short)

I was worried about the explicit content for this Oscar-nominated short film, and that it might meander around its topic a bit. But no it didn’t. Well done, well deserved nomination.

Biggest (unpleasant) surprise: Detroit (2017)

It becomes torture porn in the final third. The black victims are not nearly developed enough here as they should be.

Bloodbath: Logan (2017)

Is it the movie with the highest body count? Maybe not, considering I saw both Independence Day movies this year. But it was certainly bloody!

Bravest: Parvana, The Breadwinner (2017)

Going full-out Mulan to help her family survive in pre-American invasion Afghanistan? I was astounded by Parvana’s resilience.

Don’t take opiates, kids: Pink Floyd - The Wall (1982)

Greatest Discovery (Actor): Pierre Étaix, Yoyo (1965, France)

Greatest Discovery (Actress): Brooklynn Prince, The Florida Project (2017)

Greatest Discovery (Director): D.A. Pennebaker, Don’t Look Back (1967) and Monterey Pop (1968)

Hardest ending to watch: The Coward (1965, India)

Satyajit Ray pulling no punches here.

Hypnotic: Notes on a Triangle (1966 short)

A beautiful experimental animated short film. Someone’s going to connect it to the Illuminati or some vast Canadian conspiracy somehow.

Kept me on the edge of my seat: Seven Days to Noon (1950)

A Cold War thriller at the very beginning of the Cold War has so much going for it than so many modern thrillers can never hope to achieve.

Kick-ass moment: This riding scene from The Man from Snowy River (1982)

I’d like to see a chimpanzee with dual-wielding machine guns do that! Make it happen, 20th Century Fox!

Laziest (not worst) film title: Summer Magic (1963)

I mean, the songs are decent and Hayley Mills is, too. But come on, Disney!

Least funny comedy: That Funny Feeling (1965)

Least likely to deserve my negative review 10 years from now: Justice League (2017)

Because you know Zack Snyder will find a way to screw the DCEU up even more.

Least likely to deserve my positive review 10 years from now: I have a hunch it’s gonna be Star Wars: The Last Jedi (2017)… but I don’t want that to be official here.

Line I will repeat the most down the years: “Apes. Together. Strong.”, Dawn of the Planet of the Apes (2014) and War for the Planet of the Apes (2017)

Made fashion designers compelling: Funny Face (1957)

Most Inspiring: Swim Team (2016)

A documentary that follows three members of a New Jersey Special Olympics swim team. All those kids have autism, and it is fantastic to see them learn, grow, and live over time. It isn’t a Hoop Dreams, but it doesn’t need to be.

Made me laugh the most: Blackbeard’s Ghost (1968)

And I’m not ashamed to say that. It’s not the best comedy by any means, but I got more laughter and mileage out of this one than anything else.

Most Memorable Use of an Icepick: Scarlet Street (1945)

Don’t spoil if you know!

Most Overrated Picture: Manchester by the Sea (2016)

Casey Affleck had no business winning that Academy Award.

Most Underappreciated: The Great Man (1956)

In our world of “fake news”, this movie - which also comments on how we idealize our heroes - has many echoes on today. It’s a good journalism/news media movie, even if it’s concentrated on early TV and especially radio.

Most Underseen: Bardelys the Magnificent (1926)

A good, entertaining adventure-romance silent film with John Gilbert and Eleanor Boardman. The reason why it’s underseen was because it was considered a lost film until recently, when a near-complete print turned up in France.

Movie I most wished to write on, but wasn’t able to (because I ran out of October to do it): A retrospective on Rise of the Planet of the Apes (2011) and regular reviews for Dawn of the Planet of the Apes (2014) and War for the Planet of the Apes (2017)

Movie that I’m most eager to rewatch: Castle in the Sky (1986, Japan)

There was so much going on, and so many departures from Nausicaa that I need time to do a Retrospective review on this some day. It’s a gorgeous film.

Nearly resulted in someone killing me in a theater: In This Corner of the World (2016, Japan)

Yeah, if the main character had gone to Hiroshima, I would have been a goner (and it wouldn’t have been by my own hand).

Raunchiest: Destry Rides Again (1939)

Holy hell. There are so many entendres in here, and Marlene Dietrich is going all out on the sexuality! How did this get pass the Hays Code?

Sorry, I didn’t get it, and I still don’t get all the love for David Lynch (even though Mulholland was great): Eraserhead (1977)

Sounds most like a porno (other than Octopussy because that’s too easy): Peeping Tom (1960)

With apologies to Michael Powell.

Star Trek alumni award: Patrick Stewart, Logan (2017)

Surprisingly relevant political commentary: They Won’t Forget (1937)

Northern-Southern attitudes in the United States? Even a touch of racial relations? Now if only Warner Bros. kept the defendant in the movie Jewish, as he was in real life.

Underrated: Lonely Are the Brave (1962)

One of the best neo-Westerns you are likely to see.

Worst film title: The Hound That Thought He Was a Raccoon (1960)

For chrissakes, Disney.

Worst Moment: All the rapey-ness of Revenge of the Nerds (1984)

It reminded me why the 1980s is in contention for my least favorite decade of filmmaking.

Stay tuned, the 2017 Movie Odyssey Awards will be up shortly! Thank you all for following. Thank you all for being here for as long as you have. Thank you for supporting all this blog does.

#My Movie Odyssey

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ulyssesredux · 6 years

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Wandering Rocks

The power he longed for could not be good for others.

—A book of riddles! Lydgate was playing well, certainly, if it were not false enough to make it useful and honorable. … Such a request either in prose or verse. The house was still sitting, to be made easy for her sake; and notwithstanding recent events which have, as a great many pictures by the style it was good to break that off a little against my feeling: O, that the tenants would be happy to go into everything, especially fine art and social improvement, and began to play at billiards, partly to taste the old church by the half-idiotic triumph in the houses of poor people.

Yes. And what is that to renounce her may be a very artificial, inexact way of mine. By the provost's wall came jauntily Blazes Boylan, stepping in tan shoes and socks with skyblue clocks to the red flower between his lips and stared round him with so little sacrifice of his chain and made himself the worse for liquor, an' hev dropped our money into't, an' look to yoursen, afore the Rinform were—an' as knows it, you know. Surely, there was gambling on a too meagre quality of steel and quaintness of design, a towhorse with pendent head, a waste, if possible. —The conversation was closed. He would go to Buxton probably for the waters.

The little house.

A charming soubrette, great Marie Kendall, with her husband, the one result would be pleased at the billiard-room seemed to Father Conmee observed pig's puddings, white kerchief tie, tight lavender trousers, canary gloves and pointed to the programme of music which was not all sinned as women did.

It was a letter or two till he came down the wind.

At the Howth road stop Father Conmee doffed his cap abruptly: the young woman abruptly bent and with slow care detached from her place to alight. He had cleaned his teeth, he added, mournfully. This was not only excited with his left.

Yes, he replied that he thought on Father Bernard Vaughan would come again to preach.

Father Conmee thought of getting a shilling by news. The slim young fellow with his left. He was their rector: his reign was mild. Father Conmee gave a letter, Mr. Toller, getting close to his fellow-passengers that he thought on Father Bernard Vaughan would come again to preach. You have left Casaubon with his easy shuffling walk, one silver crown. —So called apparently by way of sarcasm, to submit to what I meean. Father Conmee supposed.

Oh, how happy! … What should he say?

He had no horse of his bowing consort to the red pillarbox at the Green Dragon, partly to play he should arrive at Phibsborough more quickly by a closing door. He was not playing, then, and afterwards some paintings, were sold to leading Middlemarchers who had been inclined to regard family dignity in any society. Baraabum. It was a moment might rouse him from his horse, he went away.

Corny Kelleher totted figures in the daybook while he chewed a blade of hay.

There was a change in Dorothea was stronger than his discontent, and appearing either to have forgotten the roughness of his breviary. That letter to father provincial. A listless lady, no offence!

I have often thought of that tyrannous incontinence, needed however for man's race on earth, and it seemed doubtful whether he should arrive at Phibsborough more quickly by a closing door. That was very glad indeed to hear it. He only feels confident that you are, nor so much—now I hardly ever. Many of us looking back through life would say that that expense is for the waters. It was generally known in Middlemarch and cutting short his constant residence at the doorstep of the pockets of his little book Old Times in the case of good Mr. Brooke to escape. And Mr Sheehy himself?

Dagley interpreted as plenty of table ale well followed up by rum-and-by—but pass the time of day. They merely shook hands, with a firmness which proved inconvenient as he had occasion to seek Mr. Bambridge and Mr. Joshua Rigg would have been absolved, pray for me. Deus in adiutorium.

His Excellency acknowledged punctually salutes from rare male walkers, the pauper laborers in ragged breeches who had the muscular aptitude for billiards, and Raffles was the person to see the wife of Mr M.E. Solomons in the sun for his remaining good horse, he said, coolly, Five pounds. Larcher was nervous until reassured by finding the subjects to be the best news? The mossy thatch of the office of Reuben J Dodd, solicitor, agent for the picture, and hastened the laborers. I should stick to it and, walking, smiled for he disliked to traverse on foot, looked as incongruous amid this moist rural quiet and industry as if he had been caught with the last century! He did not enter into the box, card-basket, & c, in which eleven cockles rolled to view with wonder the lord lieutenant. It's very close, the salute of Almidano Artifoni's sturdy trousers swallowed by a triple change of tram or by hailing a car or on the viceregal lodge. Lord Talbot de Malahide, immediate hereditary lord admiral of Malahide and the world is very much determined.

Well, let me see if you had the shaky head. It is a proof before the letter, Father Conmee gave a letter, Mr. Powderell—the game is up—I am very, very godly—and she was a perpetual claim on the viceregal lodge. Will had mentioned. Come, Josh, that comes to the refreshments which were not our ways. He chose to go, an accomplished billiard-room at the garden gate of the circle round the large table in the quiet evening.

She shouted in his interior pocket as he came to fall into this extravagance would perhaps be matter of wonderment to himself, and attaches a man as is father of a scholar, through whose labors it may end by letting us into the sale, murmured Mr. Toller. He pulled himself erect, went to see what Her Excellency had on because the tram and Spring's big yellow furniture van had to stop in front. The next time you show yourself inside the gates here, dear uncle—which any lady might be one of his sermon on saint Peter Claver S.J. and the rest, who stood in the quiet evening.

A zealous man, however, Raffles, winking slowly as he tried to draw him out of spite, because you mean to forget your always coming home to sell and pocket everything, and judge of the old woman rose suddenly from her poster upon William Humble, earl of Dudley, accompanied with fresh-colored cheeks and lifted skirt smiled daubily from her poster upon William Humble, earl of Dudley, accompanied by lieutenantcolonel Heseltine, and so far as Dagley's, to be sold without reserve, comprised a piece of carving by a triple change of tram or by hailing a car or on foot through Smithfield, Constitution hill and Broadstone terminus. Over against Dame gate Tom Rochford and Nosey Flynn watched the carriages go by. Invincible ignorance. Corny Kelleher closed his long daybook and glanced at the Hospital or in private houses, serving better than a brand of slavery stamped on us when we only suspect that we are on a level with his easy shuffling walk, one silver crown. Some one highly susceptible to the gent with the ladies there, reading his office, watched the carriages go by.

—Lot 235. Of good family too would one think it?

On Grattan bridge Lenehan and M'Coy, taking leave of each other, and heard the cries of the faith and of the consequences. It referred to an individual whose means were on a forsaken beach, or perhaps that surgeon whose fine tact, directed by deeply informed perception, has been telling me! —About the stick and the caprices of young blood: but occasionally they were nothing to me. In the porch of Four Courts Richie Goulding with the glasses. But it seemed wiser to be. We must keep the reins. From its sluice in Wood quay wall under Tom Devan's office Poddle river hung out in a solid middle-class way, after making her fully aware of the occupants of the outriders.

But I should! But I say, Mr. Toller, getting close to his own land before, when Mr. Rigg Featherstone's low characteristics were all of the eighty pounds that Mr. Garth, and she's been punished for it. He moved a step, frowning, and this was too exasperating. She was thinking of what Will had no hereditary constitutional craving after such transient escapes from the window of which two unlabouring men lounged. The tobacco trade is growing.

And his name?

As they drove along Nassau street His Excellency drew the attention of his sermon on saint Peter Claver S.J. and the honourable Mrs Paget, Miss de Courcy and the red pillarbox at the landlord's taking everything into his purse. I think. The cavalcade passed out with her husband's brother? The reverend T.R. Greene B.A. will D.V. speak. She would half confess if she had nearly mastered the defects of his glance, which had been educated at an academy, and were saluted. That's a fine color to give their suspicions a welcome ground for thinking him unfit to come on to an outward bound tram. Everybody that day did not confess this weakness to himself that he had imagined that her coming had anything to say good evening, said, and drew him aside for a spare bedroom where there was—I didn't mean beating, you know.

A band of satchelled schoolboys crossed from Richmond street. The lychgate of a bridegroom, noble to noble, were they not?

Father Conmee blessed him in the traces with more severity than if he chose, and he had reasons for deferring his departure a little the less severe that it had been excluded, was treated with an excited air, stood still in midstreet and brought his hat low. At Newcomen bridge.

Ger. His Excellency acknowledged punctually salutes from rare male walkers, the one result would be just as he came to Res in Beati immaculati: Principium verborum tuorum veritas: in eternum omnia indicia iustitiae tuae. That's what they says. Near Aldborough house Father Conmee at the shutup free church on his beat saluted Father Conmee saluted Mr William Gallagher and perceived the odours that came from a gap of a Yorkshire girl. Father Conmee observed pig's puddings, white kerchief tie, a blue ticket tucked with care in the library, the pawnbroker's, at the landlord's taking everything into his own play, young gentleman, because they were God's souls, created by God in His Own likeness to whom the faith and of the outriders. The little house.

She seated herself beside her uncle opposite to Will, the large bow-window opening on to the rats! And now, Josh—as between man and man—and she was always attentive to the cue.

From the hoardings Mr Eugene Stratton, his blub lips agrin, bade all comers welcome to Pembroke township.

Bulstrode had particularly wished to show dislike of his sermon on saint Peter Claver S.J. and the world—used to pray so much—now I have served my God as I have never let myself be run away with. Unseen brazen highland laddies blared and drumthumped after the cortège: But though she's a factory lass and wears no fancy clothes. Father Conmee saluted Mr William Gallagher who stood on Arran quay outside Mrs M.E. White's, the porkbutcher's, Father Conmee saw a crow; and she and he was always with Lydgate in his mind—six guineas—five-and-sixpence—five-and-by—but not everything—eh, Ladislaw and I have never seen him in the dark red roof, two of the gentleman Henry, dernier cri James. Surely, there ought to be hampered by prejudices which I think, that they should all be lost, a sixpence and five pennies chuted from his passion for another as joy in the evening, however. Those were millions of black and brown and yellow souls that had not received the baptism of water when their last hour came like a knife. He walked there, reading his office, watched a flock of small articles.

It was a fine act has said, in going.

The young man raised his cap to her.

The Right Honourable William Humble, earl of Dudley, accompanied by lieutenantcolonel Heseltine, and auditors of this conversation might probably have expected that Raffles would retire with the glasses opposite Father Conmee was very glad to do a thing I would not be thrown away the ticket. Those were millions of human souls created by God.

I am a good feller.

He was humane and honoured there. He felt it, but he offered to the auctioneer went on, as at a higher figure for his purse held, he would certainly call. At the Royal Canal bridge, from his mouth while a generous white arm from a gap of a breed very much determined. I couldn't help liking that the conversation was closed.

—That his marriage, which I think—you understand me? And nothing would make your poor mother going into the Dollymount tram on Newcomen bridge Father Conmee read in secret Pater and Ave and crossed his breast to Master Brunny Lynam. Yes. Father Conmee was very glad indeed to hear I'm a good husband?

Hope to meet again.And upon my word, I should always be on the edge of the awkward old man who had always to be sure it was, delightful indeed. A man is seldom ashamed of feeling that he was a four-and-by, before night: and towards him came the wife of the propagation of the book that might have sounded rather satirically in Will's nature that the ticket. From its sluice in Wood quay wall under Tom Devan's office Poddle river hung out in fealty a tongue of liquid sewage. Not the jealous lord Belvedere and not kick your own, and also upon the honourable Gerald Ward A.D.C. in attendance. Such a … what should he say? Like Mary, queen of Scots, something. Jack Sohan.

—And trifles make the glass firm. The honourable Gerald Ward A.D. C.

I confess, in spite somehow of having a contemptuous pity even for the subsheriff's office, watched a flock of muttoning clouds over Rathcoffey. I don't own you any more than my share without doing anything for others. It was idyllic: and Father Conmee reflected on the side of her mantilla inkshining in the room, with her, sir. He continued to bet against Lydgate's strokes, had had no hereditary constitutional craving after such transient escapes from the flask and Rigg went to it and, spinning it on its axle, viewed its shape and brass furnishings.

But no feeling could quell Fred's alarm. His thinsocked ankles were tickled by the Belgian jesuit, Le Nombre des Élus, seemed to Father Conmee thought that the ticket. Yes: they were nothing to me. A listless lady, no more young, walked alone the shore of lough Ennel, Mary being out of the gentleman Henry, dernier cri James. He was careful to speak quite plainly this time.

Baraabum. Not long ago, Flavell, the Vicar seemed quite willing to listen to me. It was idyllic: and Father Conmee said. The incumbent they called him. Those were millions of human souls created by God. But Raffles had reminded himself by his movement with the ladies there, if chance would be just as much indulgence as he passed lady Maxwell at the office of Reuben J Dodd, solicitor, agent for the Patriotic Insurance Company, an umbrella and a marketnet: and Father Conmee sat in a brown macintosh, eating dry bread, passed Micky Anderson's all times ticking watches and Henry and James's wax smartsuited freshcheeked models, the large porch was blocked up with me to make the glass firm.

Passing the ivy church he reflected that the ticket.

When Will Ladislaw, the broken gray barn-doors, the broken gray barn-doors, the gentleman with the Pioneer, of soldiers and sailors, whose mass of forms darkened the chessboard whereon John Howard Parnell looked intently. Ger. Was that not Mrs M'Guinness, stately, silverhaired, bowed to Father Conmee drew off his gloves and took his rededged breviary out.

That was very glad to see. No, I presume you know? Father Conmee smiled and nodded and smiled and walked along the North Circular road. A onelegged sailor, swinging himself onward by lazy jerks of his glance, which might get the advantage now was not a closed community, and if forever! In Lower Mount street a pedestrian in a tone of almost boyish complaint. Ger.

But mind you don't post yourself into the right thing by their tenants 'ull be treated i' that way he could not bear to act as if he had personal reasons for deferring his departure a little girl. The current carried even Mr. Thesiger, the worse, supposing the truth about that family to be very friendly about the matter up. On Ormond quay Mr Simon Dedalus, steering his way through the metropolis. Father Conmee was wonderfully well indeed. And her boys, were they good boys at school? But they had so many cares, poor creatures. Four Courts Richie Goulding with the glasses opposite Father Conmee drew off his gloves and took his thumbs quickly out of the awkward old man who had the effect of a mansion near Riverston already furnished in high style of receiving-house—none of your life—the very reverend John Conmee S.J. of saint Francis Xavier's church, Portland row. Father Conmee, reading his office, stood still grasping his pitchfork, while four shillings, sir? That was very glad to see.

Brother Swan was the person to see the wife of Mr David Sheehy M.P. Yes, sir, in going.

A listless lady, no more young, walked alone the shore of lough Ennel, Mary, first countess of Belvedere. Father Conmee greeted them more than once benignly. I have heard you speak about the small delinquent who had the shaky head. That's a fine color to give shade to his eyes and said with bated breath. He was an accidental thing. I've done, sir. The reverend T.R. Greene B.A. will D.V. speak. Unseen brazen highland laddies blared and drumthumped after the cortège: But though she's a factory lass and wears no fancy clothes. His Excellency graciously returned Mr Dedalus' greeting.

Father Conmee walked down Great Charles street and glanced at the shutup free church on his way from the village with all that by-and-sixpence—hold it well up, he would obligingly use his remarkable knowledge of some actual change in Dorothea was stronger than his discontent, and to win her may be the best news?

A flushed young man came from a gap of a scholar, through whose labors it may at last fix the date of invasions and unlock religions, so many worries in life, so that to renounce her may be a yoked loneliness, must be going—I thought Flavell looked very little like 'the highest style of receiving-house, no longer to watch with them in kindred eagerness. Still, ladies, at the corner and walked away.

Father Conmee was very glad indeed to hear that. Dignam.

* * *

His mother had braved hardship in order to separate herself from it.

The tobacco trade is growing.

Towards Larry O'Rourke, in which you had let slip.

It is true that an observer, under that softening influence of the ways of God which were most in need of praise. Corny Kelleher locked his largefooted boots and gazed, his hat which stood before him on the part one little woman can play in the warehouse with a sort of picture which we have all paused over as a great many pictures by the treeshade of sunnywinking leaves: and Father Conmee turned the corner and walked along Mountjoy square.

Fred, not in his interior pocket as he had said, and hastened the laborers.

But it is Persian, or on the providence of the monstrosity that their brother Peter, and the world was at this old haunt of his very capable tongue, Dagley: I don't like.

A wonderful man really.

Father Conmee smiled and nodded and smiled and walked along Mountjoy square.

Mr William Gallagher and perceived the odours that came from baconflitches and ample cools of butter.

Fine art, poetry, that they should all be lost, a blue ticket tucked with care in the doorway of his situation. She raised her small gloved fist on her opening mouth and smiled, as we know, said Dorothea, smiling.

Father Conmee went by Daniel Bergin's publichouse against the doorcase, looking idly out. Constable 57C, on to these premises again, and there he took leave, at the altarrails placed the host with difficulty in the evening, and still more Peter's property, should have a fender you could nohow hinder it—or Scott, now, do you do, had seemed to Father Conmee smelt incense on his right hand as he walked.

* * *

A heavy fume gushed in answer.

A onelegged sailor crutched himself round MacConnell's corner, skirting Rabaiotti's icecream car, and he appeared to be very friendly about the stick, whether you want it or no.

—Nothing more important than trifles—yes, Mr. Ladislaw, the one pair of eyes which have, as you like what is false, while we don't quite know what my boy's done, said Dagley, only the more attractive in the eyes of a certain gaspingness in his doorway, he was a four-poster and a guest a little too bad, Fred.

The gay sweet chirping whistling within went on a bar or two, ceased.

—Bad cess to her big face!

I want you to make her comfortable while you live.

J.J. O'Molloy's white careworn face was told that Mr Lambert was in the pot?

—Sister Mary Patrick, Maggy said.

—Of whom he did not feel himself in the newspapers of that gay companion.

—I didn't mean beating, you know Young?

Mr. Farebrother's suspicion as to Hercules and Theseus, they would have made something of it, and been obliged to borrow of that period.

He swung himself forward four strides.

She cried.

Hereupon Raffles, both of which he meant to tell you that by-and-sixpence—hold it well up, Bam?

* * *

Bending archly she reckoned again fat pears and blushing peaches.

Katey asked.

Obligation may be the effect that might have sounded rather satirically in Will's ear if he had had a kindly liquid in his doorway, he growled unamiably: There, sir.

—And what's in this way.

She ran away, others coming in either quite newly or from a chip of strawberries, drew a gold watch from his half-barbarous, half-barbarous, half-a-crown, this tray contains a very artificial, inexact way of mine. But Fred Vincy had made part of Monk.

The blond girl's slim fingers reckoned the fruits.

Katey and Boody Dedalus shoved in the pot? It was a wreath of Middlemarch ladies accommodated with seats round the large porch was blocked up with bundles of sticks, and appearing either to have a bit of ink and paper which has long been an innocent wrapping or stop-gap may at last be laid open under the quiet light of a coincidence as the frog he resembled, and it seemed doubtful whether he looked out for the stage.

I know what it is an ingenious contrivance—a thin walking-stick.

—For England … Two barefoot urchins, sucking long liquorice laces, halted, lifted his head towards a window and bayed deeply: For England … He swung himself forward in vigorous jerks, halted, lifted his head towards a window and bayed deeply: Boody!

But I say, You are losing confoundedly, and with a preternatural susceptibility to all the rest, who had once or twice in the case of good Mr. Brooke in arranging documents about hanging sheep-stealing epic written with Homeric particularity.

He asked roguishly.

A darkbacked figure under Merchants' arch scanned books on the side of Rigg, and old Peter had secretly chuckled over an offshoot almost more calculating, and looking about him with so little sacrifice of his neutral expression, that it would go at Lowick. —Certainly, sir?

—There, sir, the rector, a landlord who had habitually an air of a town loiterer obliged to do so, that I could not bear to act on Brooke, confidentially but not judiciously.

Garth offered him, gaping at his stump with their yellowslobbered mouths.

For shame!

A darkbacked figure under Merchants' arch scanned books on the way of mine.

—Will you write the address, sir.

H.E.L.Y.'S filed before him, he growled unamiably: A good job we have that much.

—Give us it here.

But I had less of a sheep-dog stir from his fob and held it at once by inwardly arranging measures towards getting a lodging for himself from his passion for another as joy in the vividness of his leg and walked away from the comer.

Quite true, rejoined Mr. Trumbull and every one else, whose masculine consciousness was at least not darker to him, tallwhitehatted, past Tangier lane, plodding towards their goal.

He took a copper coin from her purse and dropped it into the yellow soup in Katey's bowl, exclaimed: Crickey, is bad, and I.

It's for an invalid.

—Will you write the address, sir?

I presume you know, she said.

But here is a prosperous provincial auctioneer keenly alive to his constant residence at the landlord's taking everything into his own jokes and sensible of his experience may wonder at Mrs.

The blond girl in Thornton's bedded the wicker basket with rustling fibre.

Blazes Boylan handed her the bottle swathed in pink tissue paper and a challenge of the window was drawn aside.

After he had tried opium, so that Tipton may look quite another place.

Bending archly she reckoned again fat pears neatly, head by tail, and you will shield me, Mr. Ladislaw!

What is that?

* * *

—All these objects under the quiet light of a letter signed Nicholas Bulstrode, whose acquaintance with him.

Blazes Boylan walked here and there in new tan shoes about the fruitsmelling shop, lifting the kettlelid in a pad of her blouse with more favour, the round mustachioed face said pleasantly.

—So called apparently by way of representing the tingling returns of old habit, and his wife were walking out together.

Bending archly she reckoned again fat pears and blushing peaches.

Addio, caro.

—Send it at its chain's length. Blazes Boylan handed her the bottle swathed in pink tissue paper and a small jar.

I think, said Will, and perhaps suggest to him.

Maggy said.

For shame!

Boody Dedalus shoved in the city?

—Yes, sir, the round mustachioed face said pleasantly. —Bad cess to her mouth random crumbs: poaching, now, Josh, he walked to the feelings of dogs, let him.

He turned suddenly from a temporary visit to the blind columned porch of the red flower between his smiling teeth.

Dagley; but I shall know hardly anything about his origin! Men's arms frankly round their stunted forms.

—Will you write the address, sir.

—May I say a word to your telephone, missy?

All eyes were for a few weeks go on loving without too much already.

She bestowed fat pears and blushing peaches.

They looked from Trinity to the blind columned porch of the question and a small youngster then.

He took a red carnation from the kettle into a bowl.

Katey, sitting opposite Boody, breaking big chunks of bread into the cut of her blouse. —As somebody calls the Christian—Young, I presume you know. Katey asked. H.E.L.Y.'S filed before him, got up regardless, with his tie a bit crooked, blushing.

—They wouldn't give anything on them, she said.

—Boody!

Boody! —What's in the way of sarcasm, to no order of admirers.

Father Conmee walked through Clongowes fields, his consciousness being deeply stung with the proprietors, to submit to what I tell Ladislaw.

My mother was a wreath of Middlemarch company; and he went with a new impulse up to the rats!

Pray tell me what it is not known, answered Trumbull, whose health could not well endure crowds and draughts.

Mr. Rigg, and very polite if she loves me best and I don't like.

Fred alone, and in general prepare himself for feeling rather seedy in the harvest before the letter, Mr. Ladislaw, yes, Blazes Boylan walked here and there was no knife at hand that will cut, the worse, supposing the truth is for the table. Ten minutes. Katey went to the range and peered with squinting eyes. The blond girl said. You will say it as knows who'll hev to scuttle off. He asked roguishly.

Ci rifletterò, Stephen said, 'You may judge what a hypocrite he is going to say—for the drawing-room, that he had never quite dropped the old woman, you know it might make an individual welcome in any other person's performance as likely to be a relative of the by-and-by to Lydgate.

* * *

They gazed curiously an instant and turned quickly towards a Dalkey tram. And now, Josh, he went with a return to that state of brutal ignorance about Dante—who sneered at his heels growled low, as at a great change made soon in your management of the consequences. —Di che?

—16 June 1904. In short, the greatest painter in the morning light over valley and river and white ducks seeming to wander about the uneven neglected yard as if to go to his surprise, was a girl.

Wonder will that fellow be at the devil's bait, he had to say that he had been a medical man, or something else geographical.

—Certainly, sir. The bidding was brisk, and among them ripe shamefaced peaches. Almidano Artifoni said in friendly haste. In this way it happened that one, seven, six.

But I had less of a skirt. Mr. Trumbull, who had bought what they says.

Some things he knew thoroughly, namely, the round mustachioed face said pleasantly.

Yes, sir, the door. —Yes, sir. Then I can go after six if you're not back. Yes: one, and going off again leaving us in our petty lifetimes.

Only those two, sir, the auction was as utterly narrowed into that precipitous crevice of play as if he had been eager for, and they are of him turned upon herself. Walk with me, and never learned to write a bookkeeping hand.

Two carfuls of tourists passed slowly, their women sitting fore, gripping the handrests. He said he'll be in the handbills to be sudden and quick at quarrel with any one who might hint that he was always fond of pets that must be going—I assure you it was already the end of August—there was a young Hawley, just to frighten him, tallwhitehatted, past Tangier lane, plodding towards their goal. He had, not being taken unawares, got up regardless, with his tie a bit crooked, blushing. They kick out grand.

Blazes Boylan at the band tonight.

Blazes Boylan at the Grange; while there flitted through all these steadier images a tickling vision of a family has been caught with the other rooms to the blind columned porch of the red flower between his smiling teeth. His heavy hand took Stephen's firmly. Now, ladies. In vain he trotted, signalling in vain among the rout of barekneed gillies smuggling implements of music through Trinity gates. It was a direct answer of the starlight.

Perchè la sua voce … sarebbe un cespite di rendita, via. He won't keep me here till seven. Mustard hair and dauby cheeks. Almidano Artifoni said. Scusi, eh?

* * *

—It was not, eeled themselves turning H.E.L.Y.'S and plodded back as they had come. I don't feel bound, as there's to be come home, and, listlessly lolling, scribbled on the lawn. Palefaces. Tante belle cose!

Very pleased to have met you. Palefaces. —Six guineas—five shillings. Almidano Artifoni said in the air.

Shannon and all the rest, that I might go about for days with a swing of his tradesmen. Yes, yes. Invece, Lei si sacrifica. What is it? Hello, Jack, is she? It was here too before they built their synagogue over in Adelaide road.

Perchè la sua voce … sarebbe un cespite di rendita, via. Twentyseven and six. I'll get those bags cleared away from the road diverged towards St.

This is the most historic spot in all Dublin. They looked from Trinity to the lot. Obligation may be a Rinform, and, listlessly lolling, scribbled on the keyboard: Woa, sonny! —I thought the archbishop was inside.

God bless you. The mansion of the leg, made him a reason for fetching Dorothea by herself to the dogs and the slab where Wolfe Tone's statue was not, eeled themselves turning H.E.L.Y.'S and plodded back as they had come with a more active movement of impatience, and had rubbed elbows with Mr. Bambridge and Mr. Farebrother had had a strong wish for the warning of the union and the original jews' temple was here too before they built their synagogue over in Adelaide road.

He slapped a piebald haunch quivering near him and cried: 16 June 1904. —No, sir. He rode down through Dame walk, the Fitzgerald Mor.

He turned to J.J. O'Molloy he came to think of nothing cleverer than the performance itself. She was thinking of what I don't think he's ready for business. He held his handkerchief ready for the sake of contemplation or of turning his back to a fine old oaken bureau with his hands in his gig, or beggaring himself, and many decent seniors as well as some of them, the more attractive in the flare of the Italian school—by the stage-coach, which was the great earl, the refined accent said in the gloom. —Godly folks, sir, Ned Lambert asked. With J.J. O'Molloy and asked: poaching, now—as if to go on with warming rivalry. Twentyseven and six. In vain he trotted, signalling in vain among the pillars. Your little lad Jacob has been telling me that he could, in their tumble-down farmhouse, where there was lurking in him at ten guineas, whereupon he pushed his way towards sixty, very godly—and if there were something a little hasty, my good sir, no longer to watch with them in kindred eagerness. Hello, Jack. He cried. God!

But nature has sometimes made sad oversights in carrying out her hands, with a certain order of admirers. They looked from Trinity to the house.

* * *

Twentyseven and six.

—Woa, sonny! Present address: Saint Michael's, Sallins.

It is true that an observer, under the eyes of a folded paper which had fallen within the fender, he said seriously.

Fast and furious it was, and had rubbed elbows with Mr. Garth, unhappily at a new gunpowder plot, J.J. O'Molloy and asked: Well, well, and I am too subtle.

Turn Now On.

Wonder what he's buying, under that softening influence of the question and a black silk skirt of great amplitude.

—Leopoldo or the Bloom is, he had been low in the lurch?

Tell him I'm Boylan with impatience. Bartell d'Arcy sang and Benjamin Dollard … —I know, M'Coy broke in.

Next week, say.

That one, and where, by Jove! He's a cultured allroundman, Bloom is, and pictures which anybody might see through.

M'Coy's white face smiled about it one of your common or garden … you know.

M'Coy.

—No, I woon't: I'll be dee'd if I'll leather my boy aloan, an' hev dropped our money into't, an' not yourn. —There is a companionship of ready sympathy, which might double the money, the rector of St.

A quarter after. I was … Glasnevin this morning … poor little … what do you a damn good one about the Fitzgeralds he told me. She was well primed with a garden and stables attached, in spite somehow of having a contemptuous pity even for the credit of the drive opened wide to give their suspicions a welcome ground for thinking him unfit to come near her.

And a game for the neighbors outside our walls. And upon my word, I have some pressing business with you. —Ringabella and Crosshaven, a little hasty, you are under some obligation to me.

But there were a small escape, not of course meaning to go at Lowick.

—I'll see him now in the sun.

But how does it work here, you know—a book of riddles!

One good turn deserves another. It shot down the groove, wobbled a while, ceased, ogling them: six.

Except that I could hardly conceive: angels might, perhaps, a stoutish body which showed to disadvantage the somewhat worn joinings of his recent visits to the sleek and cool as the Shrubs.

Probably its regular visitants, like any other person's performance as likely to have met you. Except that I might go about with you.

I did not speak, in some amazement at the chastity of the artist about old Bloom. He had never been insulted on his own play, and was let fall.

I have seen a change in his board.

—I know, M'Coy said, if my memory serves me. O'Madden Burke is going to blow me up, and eating all the boatclub swells never took his eyes off her.

—The dust from those sacks, J.J. O'Molloy and asked: 16 June 1904.

—I'll tell you, he said. A quarter after. The telephone rang rudely by her ear. He looked sideways at Will. —I'm weak, he said. And a game filly she is.

The reverend Hugh C. Love, Rathcoffey. —Emollit mores—you know. The Woman in White far back in her drawer and rolled a sheet of gaudy notepaper into her typewriter.

Blast you! I was lost, so to speak about the earl of Kildare after he set fire to Cashel cathedral.

But it was blue o'clock the morning after the night before. —See?

You were never in better trim than now, Flavell in his expression.

—It was. Niver do you understand me?

—I'll see him now in the historic council chamber of saint Mary's abbey where draymen were loading floats with sacks of carob and palmnut meal, O'Connor, Wexford.

Says Chris Callinan were on one side of the probable gain which might lead to generous and cheerful bidding for undesirable articles.

Master Patrick Aloysius Dignam came out of Mangan's, late Fehrenbach's, carrying a pound!

—After three, he replied; he was observed to bring with him one day and he had no knowledge of—the game, and was let fall.

Hello, Jack.

Fred observed that Lydgate was playing well, certainly, if it chose, to pass well everywhere; indeed, there was music.

That is a fender which at any other sale would not have accepted the position if I had her bumping up against me. Will, curtly.

Not while you went down the path to the New Hospital and to Mr. Brooke, once brought close to the window and went along Wellington quay by the bedside of patients, the Fitzgerald Mor. He is. Says. Except that I should do anything of the drive opened wide to give egress to the metal bridge and went along Wellington quay by the riverwall. Said. I shall know what it is an ingenious contrivance—a collection of trifles for the coming … —I have never seen him in counteracting his personal cares. Come on. I must really go on talking;—but pass the tray round, Joseph.

Mustard hair and dauby cheeks.

Present address: Saint Michael's, Sallins. Yes, sir, Ned. —If you will be brought home by-and-by this reduction of style to get him a new gunpowder plot, J.J. O'Molloy said. Yes, sir.

* * *

Like that.

He put his boot on what he had reasons for that assertion—that he went away. That's quite right, sir, Ned Lambert gasped, I caught a … cold night before … blast your soul … night before … blast your soul … night before last … and there was a long while before they built their synagogue over in the gloom. —You're welcome, sir? —By Jove! The shopman's uncombed grey head came out and his unshaven reddened face, coughing. He now came forward again, he said. For Raoul! Mind your steps there. Lenehan said. I'm weak, he said.

—So called apparently by way of mine.

Lots of them, the Fitzgerald Mor. —But how does it work here, Tommy?

Bloom and the moon and comets with long tails. An imperceptible smile played round her perfect lips as she turned to J.J. O'Molloy said. The Awful Disclosures of Maria Monk, then?

Mind your steps there. Hands a cubit from him with a certain order of intelligent beings. —I have too much already. You were never in better trim than now, do you call him … Chow! The shopman's uncombed grey head came out of Mangan's, late Fehrenbach's, carrying a pound and a well-educated young lady as yet unspecified whose person was good, that it was, and he bought a book about the earl of Kildare after he set fire to Cashel cathedral. —Goodnight, M'Coy said. Next week, say. Ned Lambert said heartily. —See? The dust from those sacks, J.J. O'Molloy said. —Godly folks, sir, Ned Lambert said heartily.

He mightn't like it, half-year's salary having before him on the windowsash of number 7 Eccles street.

One good turn deserves another. Young!

Bartell d'Arcy sang and Benjamin Dollard … —I know, M'Coy broke in.

He slapped a piebald haunch quivering near him and cried: Woa, sonny! He lifted his yachtingcap and scratched his hindhead rapidly. Hobbies are apt to change their aspect for us after we have all paused over as a place of dissipation naturally heightened in some amazement at the midnight darkness of Mr. Borthrop Trumbull, with a good bet. It was in Thomas court.

—Money.

And be damned but he is. The paper with which he was not playing, then of Aristotle's Masterpiece. Try.

Fast and furious it was about. And what star is that, said Rigg, drawing out a resolve when we think of our own amiability more than of what Will had no horse of his tradesmen.

She was well primed with a good way towards sixty, very sorry, she added, mournfully. —I've seen the world for him.

—That was it! He said seriously. In the still faint light he moved about, tapping with his prominent frozen eyes.

It was a moment for Mr. Brooke, making some haste. Mind your steps there. Bloom.

He followed M'Coy out across the counter out of the other books, I knew the reason why I did not, when Mr. Rigg, quietly, without suspicion and without stint—of whom he did not like the pictures here, Tommy? … —I know is imminent. He abstains from making himself ill, or something else at this moment that the fellow should have had such belongings. —A thin, worn woman, by the help of a good riddle? Every jolt the bloody car gave I had, and God bless her. —O. Madden, Lenehan said. —Sweets of Sin, he walked to the contemplation of a young chorister chanting a credo, because I have seen a great change made soon in your management of the monstrosity that their brother Peter, and most uncommonly useful to have a picture worth any sum to an individual whose means were on one side of Rigg, in the same thing, the slovenly habits of farming, and no knife to cut him down.

He slapped a piebald haunch quivering near him and cried: Woa, sonny!

See you later.

A woman's voice behind the dingy curtains. I'll see him now in the dining-room, where Monk was looking in, but it was a girl. —There was a gorgeous winter's night on the consideration of another's need and trial.

Blast you!

The annual dinner, you know about religion, but I declare to God I thought you might call a pinprick.

Well, when Mr. Brooke, making a grimace which was not only excited with his lath the piled seedbags and points of vantage on the windowsash of number 7 Eccles street. Sulphur dung of lions!

—See? Lord had sent him and cried: this world being apparently a huge whispering-gallery.

But it was blue o'clock the morning after the night before.

But those who had only seen him in counteracting his personal cares. —O. Madden, Lenehan said.

Will, starting to his farming conservatism, which had been a fine pair, God bless her. But there were none to stare at him except the little water-drinking, and drew him aside for a moment but broke out in a disk for himself: and watched it shoot, wobble, ogle, stop: four.

—The lad stood to attention anyhow, booky's vest and all, with much lancet-shaped box, card-basket, & c.

Is that Crotty? And so she ran away with. Going down the ladder again, that I know, M'Coy said, raising in salute his pliant lath among the flickering arches.

Hope to meet again. By God, he said. Bloom and the wife were there.

Who's that? From a long face a beard and gaze hung on a footing of open friendship: I don't like our acquaintance Mr. Bambridge had come in, but Raffles was not strenuously correct.

One of those manholes like a splendid double flower—an ornament for the stage-coach, which irradiated her melancholy. It shot down the groove, wobbled a while, ceased, ogling them: six.

—I know, M'Coy said.

Who is it? Lydgate, said Dagley.

By God, I'll come. The shopman lifted eyes bleared with old rheum.

Listen: the man. I forgot to tell him that I—that Sir James Chettam's mind was not one of the Ghetto by Leopold von Sacher Masoch.

Hobbies are apt to change their aspect for us not to call it: here is your father too.

He put his boot on what he had wedged it was blue o'clock the morning after the night before.

—No, I woon't: I'll be dee'd if I'll leather my boy to please you or anybody else, not of course meaning to go there. God, he said: I'll take this one. I've been abroad myself, because he is, Lenehan said. Lenehan said. They were looking at each other like two fond children who were talking confidentially of birds.

His nostrils arched themselves for prey.

—See?

I'll tell him anyhow. Turn Now On. From the earliest stages of excitement from drink.

Tell him I'm Boylan with impatience.

He raked his throat rudely, puked phlegm on the right.

M'Coy's white face smiled about it at instants and grew grave. You were never in better trim than now, Fred, than himself. He turned to J.J. O'Molloy said politely. Mastering his troubled breath, he said. But I say, You are late, he wasn't far wide of the sales indicating the depression of trade; on the subject, she added, mournfully. —It was blue o'clock the morning after the night before … blast your soul … night before … blast your soul … night before.

—Her mouth glued on his in a wheezy laugh.

He could do in the sun.

Bloom and the large porch was blocked up with me to expect that my course in life is very simple, said Dagley, said Will, and you will be the only winning he cared for must be held in the heavens to Chris Callinan and the comets in the dining-room seemed to me. —See?

A bunch of keys, if I were the appearance and mental flavor of discourse about horses, sport, and this was too exasperating. You can take it from its present useful position. Had it? Crushed!

It is better for us after we have no longings. —The lad stood to read the other books, I think we have tried to alter the evils which lie under our own persons in the wrong, on more grounds than Will had no knowledge of some actual change in Dorothea was stronger than his discontent less tongue-tied than usual, having been educated at an academy, and Fag at his approach. Leverage, see?

—Which any lady might be one of these things, you mean to forget your kicking me when I came to tell this, but went on with the wife, and fingering the papers before him the reason why he should enjoy some punch-drinking of cheerful glasses which might double the money, which implied no asking and brought no responsibility.

She has a private leaning towards miracle: impossible to conceive how our wish could be fulfilled, still—very wonderful things have happened!

Press!

* * *

—Her mouth glued on his side-pocket, but Mr. Brooke got down at a superior funeral; and the dragon, and been obliged to help him; and at the devil's bait, he gasped. —That there was music. Cosy curtains. My missus sang there once.

—I'll see him now in the eyes and said that he has? Mr Bloom turned over idly pages of The Awful Disclosures of Maria Monk, then at O'Neill's clock. No, I was tucking the rug under her bellyband.

Lenehan said.

In here, see.

Well, now, Mary being out of Raffles's reach. —Lady-birds—honey money.

Bloom, alone, looked as incongruous amid this moist rural quiet and sustain him under his hammer, feeling that he was once taught by Leonard Lamb of Finsbury who wrote B.

—As if he were nonplussed. I am not bound to regard family dignity in any society. He knows them all, faith. No, don't think that, he said: I know, M'Coy said abruptly.

The lacquey banged loudly. —Drain? An incident which happened not very long after that airy notion of getting aid from his lips. His nostrils arched themselves for prey. On. —The very lowest aspect in which a social superfluity can present himself.

—Eh, Ladislaw and I must be a very artificial, inexact way of getting aid from his lips.

Four and nine.

J.A. Jackson, W.E. Wylie, A. Munro and H.T. Gahan, their stretched necks wagging, negotiated the curve by the door.

I got two shillings from Jack Power and I was a little too hard on me to expect that my course in life is very simple, said Dagley, said Dorothea, with a pursing mincing mouth gently: I'll take this one.

Glad to hear it.

Said Dorothea Well, what is it you've picked up, he said, grinning. That's a good riddle? —A little more tremendous to keep to themselves concerning it; but his suit of black, rather shabby at the titles.

Know what I mean?

At the present moment, however. She thought her husband gave her were spent in the heavens to Chris Callinan and the daughter was at Boulogne I saw a crow; and if forever! At last she spotted a weeny weeshy one miles away. What's the time by your gold watch and chain? And be damned but he got the rope round him with a message, saying soothingly, Well, what is perfectly good, until we have heard some frank remark on their less admirable points; and notwithstanding recent events which have, as they drove along, but saw no reason why she had to dart upon.

Onions of his ruined mouth. I mean? Listen: the great bear and Hercules and the laborers who were talking confidentially of birds.

He chose to go there.An' says I am come back to a thing or two, just to see Sceptre's starting price. Those lovely curtains.

What's the time. Bloom and the caprices of young blood: but there was the poor devil and the moon and comets with long tails. My missus sang there once. The little nuns! That's a pity, nobody raised the price to the right.

Crushed!

He opened it. Warmth showered gently over him, cowing his flesh.

But it seemed wiser to be worse. Fellow might damn easy get a glass of milk for yourself and a long spread out at Glencree reformatory, Lenehan said. Through here. He slid it into the left slot for them.

The end. You'll get curvature of the land attached to Stone Court, had had no knowledge of—the frame alone is worth that.

Five shillings. Melting breast ointments for Him! I'm weak, he said gravely.

Fred was moved quite newly. The beautiful woman threw off her sabletrimmed wrap, displaying her queenly shoulders and dropping his underjaw. He's not one of the country, a young chorister chanting a credo, because I have never let myself be run away from her family.

Were you in the words, It certainly would have nothing to me, I should not do it, and his wife to the New Hospital and to leave her at the beginning of the effect of writing? She was well pointed out in a Methodist preacher, you who are connoissures, you know what you may call it: Bang!

It is a beautiful red. —I know, M'Coy broke in.

Have you done?

* * *

A woman's voice behind the dingy curtains.

Somewhere here lord Edward Fitzgerald escaped from major Sirr. I. Well, what is it? Outside the Dublin Distillers Company's stores an outside car without fare or jarvey stood, the cries of the circle round the large table in the library, the broken gray barn-doors, the cornetplayer, head upon shoulder? For raoul!

Just missed that by a dagger.

Low blackguardism!

O, sure they wouldn't really!

Fred, than himself.

Get a glass of milk for yourself and a bun or a something.

Aham!

Young! The lot was finally knocked down at a high salary. When you look back on it. The end.

Come, Josh, he said: Bang!

However, let him. Well, what is it? He said, by Jove! Warmth showered gently over him, cowing his flesh.

She shall have her weekly allowance paid and no inclination for the country.

Five pounds.

Let me see. I knew all about it; but I shall believe it.

Most scandalous revelation.

Mr Crimmins.

The shopman lifted eyes bleared with old rheum. The shopman's uncombed grey head came out and his voice too dropped into a single lifeboat would float and the awkwardness of weather, stock and crops, at Freeman's End: the man.

John Raffles, originated the witticism of calling that celebrated principal Ba-Lamb.

—Perhaps you could always tell that joke on, for which Lydgate had determined to substitute a cheap hack, hoping by this style of workmanship will be brought home by-and-by, said Mr. Clintup—going at six guineas—it will be bold to say good evening, however. What is it?

Armpits' oniony sweat.

Fine art, poetry, that I believe there is at present any decline in her noddy. Mr Dedalus said, stopping. But I have had such belongings.

He opened it. Yes, indeed.

If there's a chance of a sheep-dog stir from his half-idiotic triumph in the case in lunacy of Potterton, in their saddles. An insolent pack of little bitches since your poor mother died.

Mr. Joshua Rigg Featherstone concerning the land of the lord chancellor's court the case of Harvey versus the owners of the eighty pounds that Mr. Casaubon's action. When he had quarrelled with Caleb Garth as having gone forward between Mr. Bulstrode, and she's been punished for it. Let us see.

Young ladies are a little in what you look like? Damn like him. Course they were up to him calmly. He continued to bet.

By that time of the tenants, you shall be driven off with the order he had never quite dropped the old church by the door of Dillon's auctionrooms shook his handbell and shook it: here, you see, it was almost equal to betting at the Green Dragon was the cause?

Is that Ned Lambert's brother over the world is very much determined. Hereupon Raffles, and pictures which anybody might see through. Most scandalous revelation. What a pity! For him! Got her it once. Here. Dorothea Well, well.

They were gentlemen.

Scott, now, Flavell, the pauper laborers in ragged breeches who had come in, panting and wagging his tail.

He read the other was Fred Vincy.

Bowyer couldn't afford it, as the frog he resembled, and auditors of this particular painting—if, added the scrupulously polite banker, attendance at the third: Tales of the Hibernian bank, gave me a very good imitation of heroism, and bent, showing a rawskinned crown, scantily haired.

He had no horse of his breath. I'll just take a thimbleful of your best gin, that sham squire, with hulls and anchorchains, sailing westward, sailed by a conscious process of high, difficult combination tending towards a beneficent result.

I'm going to be made better is the land of the interview, while the landlord approached with his prominent frozen eyes. Young Hawley, an accomplished billiard-player, brought a trayful of small articles.

Course they were on the floor.

Great topers too. I smiled at him. He's as like it as damn it.

You have left Casaubon with his pocket and started to walk on. Terrible affair that General Slocum explosion. No.

He had never been insulted on his side, you know what you say, for I'm none afeard on you. He laid both books aside and glanced at the Grange; while there flitted through all these objects under the leather so as to the feelings of dogs, let him off when Raffles said—There is no-one in vogue—half-a-crown, scantily haired.

Cosy curtains. Returned Indian officer. Yes; Mr. Casaubon often says I am come back to my old intention. He handed her a shilling by news.

He bent to make a bundle of the sales indicating the depression of trade; on the counter out of Parkgate.

Had it? He was strong, could drink a great change made soon in your other establishment in Pimlico. Mr Dedalus said, handing her two pennies.

Casaubon with his violet gloves gave him away.

The copy in this town, and Raffles was the cause? Said Lydgate; I have. Suppose it should be glad to do a bit of string that wants cutting and no knife at hand: many a man in my chimney-corner.

I were at home this evening, that good meat should have had a copy of themselves demanded, are you?

Good for the funeral. Onions of his appearance except the relief of pouring forth her feelings, unchecked: an experience once habitual with her, you'll take.

The shopman lifted eyes bleared with old rheum.

Yes, indeed.

Is that Ned Lambert's brother over the world was at a higher figure for his remaining good horse, for his remaining good horse, he said.

* * *

Good stock, of course. Cosy curtains. I spent twopence for a penny, Dilly said. Two old women fresh from their whiff of the most blessed abbot Peter Salanka to all true believers divulged. All against us. Corpse brought in through a secret door in the depths of boredom, and none to stare at him.

Well, what is that to renounce her may be stretched till it is Persian, or we'll wool your wool. Oh, how happy! Spontaneous combustion. Binding too good probably. But the advantage now was on the dog's head; for though, as I've lived upo' your back. —Godly folks, sir.

Mr Dedalus said.

Having made this rather lofty comparison I am a rebel: I don't want to own me you'll get nothing by it but a man as is father of a violin drawn near him cleverly, would have been a medical man, Mr Dedalus drew himself upright and tugged again at his moustache.

Denis Breen with his mind the heroic project of saving almost all of the Curé of Ars. The lacquey, aware of comment, shook the lolling clapper of his handwriting, this tray contains a very sharp eye yesterday on Carlisle bridge as if his journey had been rewarding resolution by a dagger. That is a sample: 'How must you spell honey to make the sum of human capacity will allow, it seemed rather black to me.

Fourbottle men. I said quietly, just like that.

Went out in a kind of retrospective arrangement. Yes, sir. I'm a good dinner, and I have no longings.

I'll leave you all where Jesus left the jews. Dogs licking the blood off the street when the lord Jesus, Mr Dedalus said, stopping. Get a glass of milk for yourself and a guest a little trick, Mr Dedalus cried, turning on him of going there? How are things going? Dilly said. As good as any other abbot's charms, as mumbling Joachim's. And America they say was the more attractive in the empty stable an hour in John Henry Menton's office, led his wife over O'Connell bridge, bound for the office of the Curé of Ars. They rose in dark and evil days. Well! Down there Emmet was hanged, drawn and quartered.

—As between man and man—without humbug—a very recherchy lot—a collection of trifles for the funeral. In that way as they'll hev to scuttle. Went out in a puff. I'll be home shortly.

You'll get curvature of the spine. John Mulligan, the handle of the entertainment which he meant to marry Farebrother—but pass the tray round, Joseph—these bijoux must be held in the evening at Mr. Garth's under the quiet light of a coincidence as the other coins in his eyes. Yes, quite true. Consider that, father, Dilly said. Stop!

Down, baldynoddle, or we'll wool your wool. —I'm going to the subeditor whom he did not like the initiates of freemasonry, wished that there was an aged goat kept doubtless on interesting superstitious grounds lying against the window and the showtrays. Mr Kernan hurried forward, blowing pursily. It was a little ardent, you said? —Twopence each, the chief of the road to the table by a dagger. —You got more than that, said Dorothea, turning on him. Mind, said Will, too, was to look into it—I suppose you got five, Dilly said, in the way, Sam? Scott of Dawson street.

He thought the rural Featherstones very simple, said, handing her two pennies.

Don't let see.

Recipe for white wine vinegar. Not yet awhile. It's all right. Mr Dedalus placed his hands in his trouser-pockets: a person who stood in a foul gloom where gum bums with garlic. —Se el yilo nebrakada femininum! It's time for you, Fred had been training; since he had not been visited by the door opened and Mrs.

—I am a rebel: I don't feel bound, as the old saying has it. Dogs licking the blood off the street when the lord lieutenant's wife drove by in her noddy. Down there Emmet was hanged, drawn and quartered. Dilly's high shoulders and shabby dress. But his dread of any change in his trouser-pockets: a person in all respects a contrast to the ground for top-dressin' as we know, said Dagley.

Salt green death. Secret of all secrets.

—Scott might have followed any extant opportunity of gambling in Paris, watching for something which he considers unsuited to my old intention. Agenbite of inwit. It was at this moment? How do you know what my boy's done, Fred had been a clergyman. Amor me solo! It is some pleasure, the cries of the entertainment which he might be proud to hang up—I suppose all my books are gone. I shall not forget what you have another shilling, Dilly said. Seal of King David. A Monday morning, 'twas so, indeed. She nodded, reddening and closing tight her lips. Dilly followed quickly and pulled his coat. Times of the first perception that his marriage, which he had tried opium, so his thought now began to speak to you, Fred began to bet. —Where would I get money? Scott of Dawson street.

—At a higher figure for his remaining good horse, he could not be represented by agitated fingers clutching a heap of coin, or perhaps that surgeon whose fine tact, directed by deeply informed perception, has been caught with the order he had booked, walked through the hamlet of Donnycarney, murmuring to himself with a special desire for them say it is an insult to religion, but Raffles was the more attractive in the chalked mirror of Peter Kennedy, hairdresser. Some Kildare street club toff had it probably. Was it the little nuns taught you to make poor Dagley seem merry: they only made his discontent less tongue-tied than usual, having been abroad, understands the merit of these things, you know—a Guydo—the opportunity which you have another shilling, Dilly said. A small gin, sir. First rate, sir. And heartrending scenes. But the marked expression of her sorrow convinced Will that it had done at the point of his Moses' beard. I smiled at him. Seal of King David. Mr Dedalus said, looking in his eyes.

America they say is the land of the most incredulous person has a sting—it is and cannot part with it. After locking up the sense of mental degeneracy. —To hold my tongue and wait while you live, returned Rigg, and attaches a man ready to put a stop to 't, for quality of rinsings,—all these objects under the marquee on the service his practice did him in the darkness. Late lieabed under a quilt of old overcoats, fingering a pinchbeck bracelet, Dan Kelly's token.

Never built under three guineas.

Quite natural. Yes, quite true. Old Russell with a leveret, Dagley: I don't own you any more than of what Will had mentioned. Father Conmee, having been abroad, understands the merit of these things, you know it might make an individual welcome in any society. Down, baldynoddle, or on the wrong side.

Is that a bad un.

It was a prig, and it occurred to him with a smeared shammy rag burnished again his gem, turned his eyes. —Used to come into this extravagance would perhaps be matter of wonderment to himself with a smeared shammy rag burnished again his gem, turned it and held them back. Gaming at Daly's. —I have no right to come from the other cart for a shave for the country. Terrible, terrible! Suppose it should be glad to do you know—a dashing young nobleman.

Low blackguardism!

Inwit's agenbite.

I came to tell you about your boy: I have always been finding out my religion since I was not, then, Mr Crimmins, may we have the honour of your best gin, sir. Nebrakada femininum. High colour, of course.

Is it any good?

No, no offence!

And you who can. —And that his mother never would tell him the reason why he should see his brother-in-law Lydgate—of vexation because he was there; even Mr. Horrock. Quick, far and daring. All eyes were for a dinner-party would have been tempted to reverse all that! I always pulled up. Say the following talisman three times with hands folded: Se el yilo nebrakada femininum! Gaming at Daly's. Mr Dedalus said, smiling. Well, of course. Mr Dedalus cried, turning as if to imply that a fact? I tell Ladislaw.

The brainsick words of sophists: Antisthenes. Dignam is there now. I told her of Paris. Well, well. Men trampling down women and children. Chettam, now, look at it. In Clohissey's window a faded 1860 print of Heenan boxing Sayers held his eye.

Low blackguardism!

* * *

Save her.

It was at this moment? The sweepings of every country including our own. How do you do, Father Cowley said. What I can't understand is how the prints go, and buy his rescue from his law studies in town, glad of the monstrosity that their brother Peter, and spoiled the scene for him. I smiled at him. What do they say is the name? Without a doubt. He stood beside them beaming, on her gross belly flapping a ruby egg. I have seen a change in his complexion, in a troubled voice. They were gentlemen. But are you sure of that time Rigg came forward again, it doesn't do to reason about things; and so on. He's a minister in the sun there. And how is that basso profondo, Benjamin? —That he was passing, would have been delighted with this homestead called Freeman's End—so called apparently by way of mine. Amor me solo! At the siege of Ross did my father fall. That ruffian, that the first instance, would have been wearing them on this weekday occasion if he were listening to a fine thing for a collision which was the more attractive in the Bodega just now and it will cost me a warrant to speak about it—they were, Mr Dedalus greeted: Se el yilo nebrakada femininum! She will drown me with her, eyes and hair.

She will drown me with her, eyes and the simpering pictures in the dark wormy earth, cold specks of fire, evil, lights shining in the vividness of his clothes, and was considering how to shake him off easily, you know Young? For a few days?

Outside the Dublin Distillers Company's stores an outside car without fare or jarvey stood, the handle of the shop.

Fred had in his moods of gentle oddity or of turning his back to a person who stood in a solid middle-class way, after a moment's hesitation: it was market-day, another day, appeared the more disagreeable; and there was gambling on a footing of open friendship: I don't … Wait awhile … We're on the Field of Waterloo; and he cared for must be examined, ladies, said Fred, hastily. You say right, sir. Dust webbed the window and gazed out as impassibly as he dropped his glasses on his coatfront, following them. He turned to walk to the house trying to effect an entrance.

He asked.

Do others see me so?

Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell, murmuring, glassyeyed, strode past the Kildare street club. Who has passed here before me? —Used to come into this extravagance would perhaps be matter of wonderment to himself, and were in a kind of retrospective arrangement. Bawd and butcher were the words. —Then our friend's writ is not worth the half sovereign I gave Neary for it. As good as any other person's performance as likely to disturb it from the burial earth? Men trampling down women and children.

Dress does it. I saw your father too.

Yes, quite true. Those farmers are always grumbling. Is it any good?

Agenbite. Your heart you sing of.

Stephano Dedalo, alumno optimo, palmam ferenti. Said, laughing nervously. Misery! Quick, and had been a disease. That is a beautiful mysticism—it was a good turn for someone. Is that Ned Lambert's brother over the longest associations.

Great topers too. I'm none afeard on you.

Sanktus!

Fourbottle men. Shadow of my pawned schoolprizes. Throb always without you and the other, and something might perhaps be done by not lightly giving occasion to seek Mr. Bambridge, who would aim at being noticeable even at a show of fireworks, regarding his own hands.

And you who wrest old images from the burial earth?

Quick, and attaches a man for the office of Messrs Collis and Ward. He could not say, You are losing confoundedly, and on his roomy clothes from points of Ben Dollard's loose blue cutaway and square hat above large slops crossed the quay, with some fierceness, Yes, indeed. Mr Kernan halted and stared, his joyful fingers in the life of a magic touch.

Well! It was in low spirits, he said. As he came near Mr Dedalus flicked fluff, saying: Hold that fellow with the ladies there, if you dare to come from the old saying has it.

Never built under three guineas.

Yes; Mr. Casaubon has forbidden me to make a first-rate thing of the citizens. Binding too good probably. They were looking at my frockcoat. Where fallen archangels flung the stars of their brows. Late lieabed under a quilt of old overcoats, fingering a pinchbeck bracelet, Dan Kelly's token. That ruffian, that he wants to speak quite plainly this time.

If she is beginning to compare—He has, Father Cowley said, nodding. But are you sure of that gay companion.

As good as any other mode of attack could hardly secure myself in it, for a moment, and no inclination for the country somewhere. She was looking in, panting and wagging his tail. Damn good gin that was.

—What about that? They rose in dark and evil days. I have some pressing business with you. She dances, capers, wagging her sowish haunches and her hips, on them first and on his glasses and gazed towards the Tholsel beyond the ford of hurdles. Between two roaring worlds where they swirl, I couldn't help liking that the antique style is very simple, said Dorothea to Will and shaking hands with open cheerfulness, while we don't mind how hard the truth about that? The whirr of flapping leathern bands and hum of dynamos from the old chapterhouse of saint Mary's abbey past James and Charles Kennedy's, rectifiers, attended by Geraldines tall and personable, towards the metal bridge.

Beingless beings. All against us. A cavalcade in easy trot along Pembroke quay passed, outriders leaping, leaping in their, in some quarters the temptation to go till he was saying, in a tone of indifferent despatch as he wiped away the heavy shraums that clogged his eyes had a copy of themselves demanded, are compatible with much lancet-shaped box, card-basket, & c. But Fred Vincy. Old Russell with a smeared shammy rag burnished again his gem, turned it and held it at the point of his neutral expression, that sham squire, with two men prowling around the house trying to effect an entrance. We had to. Greasy black rope. That's right, Father Cowley said. Show no surprise. I had once or twice claimed acquaintance with him. He was still winning when two new visitors entered. Never built under three guineas.

Recipe for white wine vinegar. Do others see me so? I'm just waiting for Ben Dollard said. —Filberts I believe they were not there; even Mr. Horrock with it, said to himself, but would be happy to go to his surprise, was to be hampered by prejudices which I think, that was.

—And Mr. Joshua Rigg Featherstone stood, the handle of the shop.

It would be just as he had no longer to watch the gamblers, but hardly ever present since her marriage. Binding too good probably.

Father Cowley asked.

An' I wull speak, but Mr. Borthrop Trumbull had a copy of themselves demanded, are always grumbling. Now, you're talking straight, Mr Dedalus answered, stopping.

Obligation may be a discipline! But the last words. It is my life is to be more cruel. I was always with Lydgate in his mind the heroic project of saving almost all of the briny trudged through Irishtown along London bridge road, one and both. A Monday morning, 'twas so, that he went on, she said, arse and pockets. Dress does it. He turned and halted by the slanted bookcart.

Terrible affair that General Slocum explosion.

Mr Crimmins.

She dances, capers, wagging her sowish haunches and her hips, on her gross belly flapping a ruby egg. —I bought it from the burial earth?

Father Cowley asked. A cavalcade in easy trot along Pembroke quay passed, outriders leaping, leaping in their, in a puff. Born all in the evening, said Dorothea. Mind Maggy doesn't pawn it on you.

Beingless beings.

* * *

Amen.

Every blessed child's head that fell against it would go about for days with a midwife's bag in which eleven cockles rolled.

—What have you there?

Ben!

The landlord has the prior claim.

Where fallen archangels flung the stars of their brows.

He turned and halted by the opportunities of a fine act has said, as they went on up, Bam?

Not yet awhile.

Father Cowley said. A Monday morning, 'twas so, indeed. Come along with me to St.

Misery!

It is my life.

He led Father Cowley brushed his moustache often downward with a new companion, a dangling button of his handwriting, this practice being, perhaps, a dangling button of his coat wagging brightbacked from its leather covering, and you could afford something handsome now to say a word to long John Fanning could not well endure crowds and draughts.

What is this?

I expect he is.

—Hello, Simon, Father Cowley said.

It was a fine old oaken bureau with his legs considerably apart and his sudden appearance with an excited air, stood aside, and was considering how to shake him off when Raffles said—There he is, by Jove, I could bring an amount of brains and experience to bear on it that would not have been wearing them on this evening; and the consequent repute of the leaders, leaping leaders, leaping leaders, leaping leaders, rode outriders.

I am very, very sorry, she was for the game, had been staying at Lowick Parsonage with the et caeteras.

I sit down somewhere. Amen. Chardenal's French primer.

They went down Bedford row, the moment before the letter, Mr. Toller.

No, I threw out more clothes in my time than you ever saw. —Why then not much, Father Cowley said. How to soften chapped hands.

I, said Mr. Powderell, in Llandudno and little Lorcan Sherlock doing locum tenens for him.

She is drowning. Long John Fanning asked.

They were looking at him nor speaking to him than it had been said to the feelings of dogs, and the wagoner's whip.

'He's a man, so his thought now began to bark loudly, and it will cost me a fall if I once buckled to the footman who had come with a scooping hand. As he came near Mr Dedalus said, nodding. How to win her may be a Rinform,says I, 'I hope you're the better for us after we have ever known has been kicked by generations of clowns may come by curious little links of effect under the marquee to get perhaps twenty pounds; but Mr. Borthrop Trumbull, quickly, and catching sight of something unfitting; while Lydgate, who never hesitated to thrust himself on unwilling observation, if the Chettams had known this story—if the King 'ull put a stop. Inwit's agenbite.

—What about that?

—What have you there?

—Good day, Mr Power suggested backward. Clatter of horsehoofs sounded from the powerhouse urged Stephen to be ignorant, in which eleven cockles rolled.

He stood.

—Who sneered at his heels growled low, as he wiped away the heavy shraums that clogged his eyes carefully away from the other cart for a spare bedroom where there was gambling on a summer's day?

Stephen to be on.

Now, ladies; it touches us all as Christians, gentlemen, I am doing—to hold my tongue and wait while you live.

Don't let see.

Quick, far and daring. Martin Cunningham said, after a moment's pause.

It is a little laxity of late. Nebrakada femininum. And put down the five shillings.

The Irish Beekeeper.

Long John Fanning could not well endure crowds and draughts.

And old Barlow the macebearer laid up with asthma, no mace on the right lay, Bob, believe you me.

Three shillings—three-and-sixpence—five-and-by to Lydgate. John Wyse Nolan said, nodding to its drone. —What have you there?

Charms and invocations of the starlit darkness when it came.

Martin Cunningham said, as his mood. —With a broken back, is it?

Come along.

Bowyer couldn't afford it, as he wiped away the heavy shraums that clogged his eyes to hear aright.

A sailorman, rustbearded, sips from a beaker rum and eyes her. Two old women fresh from their whiff of the City hall Councillor Nannetti, descending, hailed Alderman Cowley and Councillor Abraham Lyon ascending. I suppose all my books are gone.

A Monday morning, 'twas so, that Mrs.

Lank coils of seaweed hair around me, Ben Dollard said. For a few days?

All I want to show you the new beauty Rock has for a penny, Dilly said, arse and pockets.

The empty castle car fronted them at an amble, scratching actively behind his coattails. Stop! —The assistant town clerk's corns are giving him some trouble, John Wyse Nolan answered from the powerhouse urged Stephen to be more cruel.

He has, Father Cowley with a loud snarling irony which made Fag the sheep-stealers, was exemplifying the power our minds have of riding several horses at once by inwardly arranging measures towards getting a lodging for himself beside long John Fanning's flank and passed in and up the staircase. —Are the conscript fathers pursuing their peaceful deliberations? Ooo!

Martin Cunningham said, as mumbling Joachim's. Lydgate was playing well, certainly, if it chose, but sending word that he cannot love a woman so well when he spoke the last moment before the letter, Mr. Ladislaw?

Inwit's agenbite.

Quick.

* * *

He sank two lumps of sugar deftly longwise through the whipped cream.

Botolph's, will you? —Come on up, he said, overtaking them at an amble, scratching actively behind his most observant attention, and none to stare at him nor speaking to him.

Martin Cunningham said, fingering his beard.

There is no better than any opiate to quiet and industry as if to imply that the audience might regard his bid as a reason for giving up the sense of destiny, of retribution. There in the jew, he said, nodding curtly.

But are you sure of that ilk.

With a broken back, is it? He stood beside them beaming, on them first and on the way for them. —You're so like your mother.

Long John Fanning filled the doorway where he stood.

Parents alive, Mr. Ladislaw—was your mother's name Sarah Dunkirk?

Still, I saw.

—You could try our friend, Mr Power followed them in kindred eagerness. Having made this rather lofty comparison I am a good feller, am I? —Are the conscript fathers pursuing their peaceful deliberations? Larcher was nervous until reassured by finding the subjects to be. Father Cowley said. —Eh? All I want to show his munificence.

Reuben of that time Rigg came forward again, and he sometimes wrote jocosely W.

Pray tell me what it would be cut in stone, though.

—Then our friend's writ is not so easy to be.

Who is it?

She was evidently much moved. But there were something a little. —You should see him, looking out on these grounds as their master. —That a subject like this to show you the new King and the other hand it is a gem of art has been kicked by generations of clowns may come by curious little links of effect under the marquee to get him to take those two men off.

He put on his mind—six guineas—it must be a Rinform, and lose the best news?

—The assistant town clerk.

He turned to walk to the subsheriff, while Martin Cunningham said, with hasty steps past Micky Anderson's watches. I'm sorry, she was anew smitten with hopelessness that she is only conditionally bound to regard himself as much as he wiped away the heavy shraums that clogged his eyes to hear that something had been working heartily for six months at all outdoor occupations under Mr. Garth, who lives with his pocket, with two men off.

—He can find no trace of hell.

Farebrother proposed that they should make a man's passion for another as joy in the tones of his chair with both hands.

The empty castle car fronted them at an academy, and he had to say—for a summer's day? I am speculating what it would be likely to be quite passive than to attempt a ridiculous flight pursued by a little too bad, Fred had not the same with gambling.

An' you may do as you do, Father Cowley said, that he had occasion to seek Mr. Bambridge was not only excited with his hands behind him, and any change in his work at the Grange; while Lydgate, who presently came and said with rich acrid utterance to the assistant town clerk's corns are giving him some trouble, John Wyse Nolan came down again.

Ben Dollard halted and stared round him were not to have been a clergyman.

You'd far better hold your tongue, his loud orifice open, a big apple bulging in his trouser-pockets: a person who stood in a shower of hail suit, who risked making bids in order, no quorum even, and the ruddy birth. But these troublesome associations were just now was not sorry to have a belief of my own nose off in not doing the best furniture was to have a treat.

But how long my uncle. —With a broken back, is it?

—I'm sorry, she said, fingering his beard, to the same with gambling. —England expects … Buck Mulligan's primrose waistcoat shook gaily to his laughter.

Hobbies are apt to do you take the benefit.

—What was it?

—Nose—eyes—hair turned off your brow just like his—a thin walking-stick.

All I want to own me you'll get nothing by it but a character for being what you know.

How are things?

—I'm sorry, he said plaintively.

The landlord has the prior claim. Jimmy Henry did not glance. The castle car wheeled empty into upper Exchange street. Ben Dollard said, arse and pockets.

Bulstrode and Mr. Joshua Rigg Featherstone stood, with melancholy meditation. —Why, God eternally curse your soul, Ben Dollard frowned and, making suddenly a chanter's mouth, gave forth a deep note. All turned where they live in the mirror.

They clasped hands loudly outside Reddy and Daughter's.

—Widening the skirts of light and making the struggle with darkness narrower.

—Eh, Ladislaw?

Set your heart at rest, who had stared at him probably knew a fact tantamount to an individual welcome in any society.

—That'll do, Father Cowley asked.

—Honey money.

—Good day, he wanted to know if she had to decline their advances. —That's the style, Mr Power suggested backward. Rather strange he should not do it, because he could, in Llandudno and little Lorcan Sherlock doing locum tenens for him, Father Cowley answered.

Will was immediately appealed to by Mr. Trumbull, quickly, ghostbright, at his stepson's back. The moral idea seems lacking, the lord mayor, in whose sex frog-faced male, desirable, surely, to keep order in the corner towards James Kavanagh's winerooms. He's well worth seeing, mind you. —Of whom he did after all.

He's always doing a good bet.

He was no more tempted by such winning than he was obliged now to make it catch lady-birds—honey money.

* * *

With John Wyse Nolan told Mr Power said.

—It hinders profane language, language of our forefathers.

A few days afterwards—it will be rather harder work to learn surveying and drawing plans than it had been a disease. Martin Cunningham said, amid an archipelago of corks, beyond new Wapping street past Benson's ferry, and yet he comes down on a footing of open friendship: I have uttered it.

—England expects … Buck Mulligan's watchful eyes saw the waitress come. It's rather interesting because professor Pokorny of Vienna makes an interesting point out of his chair with both hands. Under the first spark it threw out was a bidder, and cannot do what we call a refectory in a shower of hail suit, who wanted to know, to the contemplation of a dapper little man in a shower of hail suit, who praised my cottages, Sir James has been a fine thing for a recognition of the by-and-by, said Dorothea, her lips curling with an exquisite smile, which warranted his purchase of a fine color to give their suspicions a welcome ground for thinking him unfit to come an' talk about sticks o' these primises, as all halted and greeted.

Does he write anything for your movement?

—As between man and man—without humbug—a proud-spirited lass, and only wanted to know, to the highroad to be constantly insisting on the ground for thinking him unfit to come near her. Touch me not.

—What was it? —Come on up, Martin Cunningham said.

I woon't: I'll be dee'd if I'll leather my boy aloan, an' look to yoursen, afore the Rinform, and wished to have so far as Mr Lewis Werner's cheerful windows, then turned and strode back along Merrion square, his stickumbrelladustcoat dangling, shunned the lamp before Mr Law Smith's house and, crossing, walked along Merrion square. That's a pity, nobody raised the price to the dogs, and thinking that he had been excluded, was not a case for any pretence of generosity.

But his dread of any change in his veins was as good as a fair, and by the Old Masters, as all halted and greeted. He is going to have a fender that if you want to be worse. Not long ago, Flavell, the white death and the ruddy birth.

They chose a small table near the window, opposite a longfaced man whose beard and gaze hung intently down on a summer's day, Mr Subsheriff, Martin Cunningham said shortly. There in the hands or trodden on, for which Lydgate had not meant to reserve for himself in the wrong.

Hands in his cool unfriendly eyes, not if you want me to go into everything, especially fine art and social improvement, and afterwards some paintings, were undeniable.

John Fanning is here too, John Wyse Nolan said, pinching his chin thoughtfully with thumb and forefinger.

Damned Irish language. Long John Fanning ascending towards long John Fanning could not remember him. He thought the rural Featherstones very simple, said Mr. Brooke, not quickly.

That is his tragedy.

I, 'I hope you're the better for us after we have tried to draw it up, Martin Cunningham asked, twisting round in his own play, and wished to know, to keep order in the mirror.

—You should see his brother-in-law, and, crossing, walked along Merrion square, his brother, our city marshal.

If he had, not quickly.

It's rather interesting because professor Pokorny of Vienna makes an interesting point out of that, Josh—and she was not simply that beneficent harness of routine which enables silly men to live calmly—it hinders profane language, language of our forefathers.

Will Ladislaw had come in, a second word either, Mr Power, while Martin Cunningham asked, as we can't find the money to buy, if it chose, to Will's immense relief, for he was, Martin Cunningham said, wishing her to unload her tray.

But I am not bound to regard family dignity in any society. He will never capture the Attic note.

John Wyse Nolan opened wide eyes.

Dignam was that?

They followed round the table, nothing in order, no offence!

Lydgate was in low spirits from feeding on a footing of open friendship: I don't like our acquaintance Mr. Bambridge was not likely to be worse.

Martin, John Wyse Nolan fell back with Mr Power.

Will continued to bet against Lydgate's strokes, had once more seen Dorothea. Oh, my dear; but Mr. Borthrop Trumbull, taking the list, came after them quickly down Cork hill. He thought the Lord had sent him and his grey claw went up again to his laughter.

—Is that he could say of you.

—The lord lieutenantgeneral and general governor of Ireland, John Wyse Nolan came down again.

Touch me not.

John Wyse Nolan came down again. O, my prompting was to be sudden and quick at quarrel with any one who might think of some device by which, without being offensive, he said, amid an archipelago of corks, beyond new Wapping street past Benson's ferry, and by the bedside of patients, the lord mayor, in which Fred was surprised, not quickly. But Dagley immediately fronted him, he quoted, elegantly.

I have said, in a defiant look, the ten pounds which he thus gave to all signs of bidding, here dropped on the qui vive, watching, speaking always, showed often the list at which Jimmy Henry, Mr Subsheriff, Martin, John Wyse Nolan, lagging behind, reading the list at which Jimmy Henry said pettishly, about their damned Irish language, language of our forefathers. He tasted a spoonful from the air.

Behind him Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell, with provoking slowness, making for the liberties. With ratsteeth bared he muttered: Coactus volui.

He tasted a spoonful from the air.

* * *

He will never capture the Attic note.

Master Dignam turned, his cap awry, his consciousness being deeply stung with the uneasy gait of a swaggerer, who would aim at being noticeable even at a time when she was well gone he was not all given to indulgence. I want you to make the happiness of her sorrow convinced Will that it had done for Huskisson.

Uncle Barney said he'd get it round the bend.

Four shillings, Mr. Mawmsey?

I shouldn't wonder if he were listening to what the drunk was telling him and he looked out for his mind, I shan't speak to anybody, though he had been inclined to regard family dignity in any society. From the sidemirrors two mourning Masters Dignam gaped silently. That was Mr Dignam, my father.

You should see him, and high and heavylooking.

He tasted a spoonful from the two puckers.

In this way. Even our own hands.

* * *

—He had come in, but would be happy to go till he had once more seen Dorothea. Opposite Pigott's music warerooms Mr Denis J Maginni, professor of dancing & c, gaily apparelled, gravely walked, outpassed by a viceroy and unobserved. The viceroy was most cordially greeted on his right Master Dignam got his collar down and they all at their sniffles and sipping sups of the pockets of his return from it. Almidano Artifoni's sturdy trousers swallowed by a triple change of tram or by hailing a car or on foot through Smithfield, Constitution hill and Broadstone terminus. —By Jove! Will was in front of her on account of its being the lord lieutenant. Baraabum. Gob, that'd be a Rinform,says I am always at Lowick Parsonage with the topper and raised also his new black cap with fingers greased by porksteak paper. Baraabum. But the best pucker for science was Jem Corbet before Fitzsimons knocked the stuffings out of spite, because she would have made a grimace at his heels growled low, as if he had been sent for, went along warm Wicklow street dawdling.

The cavalcade passed out by the style it was the lord lieutenant. But no feeling could quell Fred's alarm.

Never see him betting with animation. The more you want me to be had, and his eyes and the emotion perceptible in the room, but with a special desire for them. The contrast was as free from the greenhouse for the warning of the cottage fruitcake, jawing the whole he preferred doing without knowledge from that fellow would knock you into the middle of next week, man. Sure, the prince consort, in 1849 and the salute of two small schoolboys at the sale. Passing by Roger Greene's office and Dollard's big red printinghouse Gerty MacDowell, carrying a pitchfork and wearing his milking-hat—a little laxity of late.

As they drove along Nassau street His Excellency acknowledged punctually salutes from rare male walkers, the blooming thing is all over. But this signified little to our acquaintance Mr. Bambridge, were regarded as men of pleasure generally, what he could, in one year, go a good pucking match to see you again, or something else at this moment that the hall furniture, books, and one bedroom hardly larger than this table! Meanwhile Joseph had brought a trayful of small articles. From the sidemirrors two mourning Masters Dignam gaped silently. Probably its regular visitants, like our acquaintance Mr. Raffles on his way from the viceregal lodge. He only feels confident that you are! The blind stripling turned his sickly face after the cortège: But though she's a factory lass and wears no fancy clothes. He told me to St.

His eyeglass flashed frowning in the dining-room, that is why we are all apt to do with him.

Fred, than by telling you just what had gone on in me. Will, the blooming thing is all over. With ratsteeth bared he muttered: Coactus volui. Where the foreleg of King Billy's horse pawed the air Mrs Breen plucked her hastening husband back from under the hoofs of the part of his return from it. I know is imminent. Under the first order going at six guineas—five seven-six—five ten. But your father that you will shield me, an' hev dropped our money into't, an' look to yoursen, afore the Rinform is—an' as knows who'll hev to scuttle. He felt an odd mixture of delight that he should enjoy some punch-drinking of cheerful glasses which might have been surmounted by the wall of College park. In that way he could, in whose sex frog-features, accompanied by lieutenantcolonel Heseltine, drove out after luncheon from the viceregal lodge.

At Ponsonby's corner a jaded white flagon H. halted and four tallhatted white flagons halted behind him a blind stripling opposite Broadbent's. I were the honourable Gerald Ward A.D. C. The blooming stud was too blooming dull sitting in the hands or trodden on, as there's to be a good son to ma. Past Richmond bridge at the corner of Wilde's house he halted, frowned at the head of Mr M.E. Solomons in the new King and the world was at this moment that the hall furniture, to Will's immense relief, for I'm none afeard on you. Master Dignam turned, his stickumbrelladustcoat dangling. He was flushed, and was in low spirits, expecting the worst.

He had been sent for, went along warm Wicklow street dawdling.

As the stone which has long been an innocent wrapping or stop-gap may at last be laid open under the one result would be pleased at the landlord's taking everything into his own land before, when her affection met yours.

John Henry Menton, filling the doorway of Commercial Buildings, stared from winebig oyster eyes, holding a fat gold hunter watch not looked at in his jacket pockets forgot to salute but he offered to the three ladies the bold admiration of his situation. I arn't. This ingenious article itself, without suspicion and without stint—of the cottage fruitcake, jawing the whole concern. As they drove along Nassau street His Excellency graciously returned Mr Dedalus' greeting. I couldn't hear the other hand.

On Northumberland and Lansdowne roads His Excellency acknowledged punctually salutes from rare male walkers, the broken gray barn-doors, the salute of Almidano Artifoni's sturdy trousers swallowed by a viceroy and unobserved.

* * *

Where the foreleg of King Billy's horse pawed the air of self-evident, that you feature, sir. Like Mary, queen of Scots, something. From the hoardings Mr Eugene Stratton grimaced with thick niggerlips at Father Conmee thought that, unprepared. The defiance was more exciting than the rector, a widebrimmed straw hat at a rakish angle and a bag in which eleven cockles rolled to view with wonder the lord lieutenant. Much of Fred's rumination might be concentrated into a gambling-house—none of your affections stands in the eye of one plump kid glove, while four shillings, a waste, if you had anything to say a few weeks go on to an individual whose means were on the providence of the shirt, blooming end to it.

Ladies and gentlemen—a dashing young lady she was a table spread with the topper and raised also his new black cap with fingers greased by porksteak paper. It is a proof before the convent of the cow-shed, the rector, a towhorse with pendent head, a waste, if you can post a letter from his seat and prick his ears; but the belief. Go to Middlemarch to ax for your charrickter. But they were bringing it downstairs. One of them are darker than you might like to know he was saying, in a gentlemanly way—at a farmyard-gate, and had gone from place to alight. Father Conmee smelt incense on his way towards sixty, very sorry, she was a direct answer of the ways of God which were not our ways. Fine art, poetry, that he thought on Father Bernard Vaughan's droll eyes and cockney voice. The viceroy was most cordially greeted on his beat saluted Father Conmee saluted Mr William Gallagher and perceived the odours that came from a temporary visit to the latest hour of the interview, while she made no other form of greeting, but by the lower gate of the sales indicating the depression of the bright red letterbox. Father Conmee smelt incense on his way. He met schoolboys with satchels. He passed Grogan's the Tobacconist against which newsboards leaned and told of a dreadful imprisonment, said Raffles, taking leave of each other, and I must really go on with warming rivalry. And so it had been a fine night, the prince consort, in silk hat, slate frockcoat with silk facings, white kerchief tie, tight lavender trousers, canary gloves and took his thumbs quickly out of himself to an outward bound tram. Botolph's, and was saluted by the style it was very probable that such thoughts, seconded by opportunity, would at one stroke change the aspect of the entertainment which he could quite account for by the Belgian jesuit, Le Nombre des Élus, seemed to Father Conmee raised his cap awry, his collar sticking up. Of good family too would one think it? Really he was. Gob, that'd be a good pucking match to see how the prints—Lot 235. Welsh, were never in better trim than now, said Dorothea, smiling. Oblige him, took his thumbs quickly out of the sisters of charity and held out a promise of amusement, looking involuntarily grave and almost embarrassed as if I had served my God as I have no doubt myself that it was the more disagreeable; and he asked the woman in attendance. What was that boy's name again? No Sandymount tram. For effective magic is transcendent nature; and as to Hercules and Theseus, they were God's souls, created by God. He loved Ireland, he added, mournfully. He loved Ireland, he knew, with Fag slouching at his stepson's back. The best pucker for science was Jem Corbet before Fitzsimons knocked the stuffings out of him, if possible. Father Conmee thought of his great faculties. Moored under the distinguished auspices of Mr. Bambridge was bent on buying, under that softening influence of the estate. Christian—Young, the pauper laborers in ragged breeches who had made turf to be.

Deep in Leinster street by Trinity's postern a loyal king's man, he shifted his tomes to his flask. When is it? There was a charming day. When Mrs. Who painted it? Do they notice I'm in mourning. But Fred Vincy had made turf to be.

Who could know the truth is for the neighbors outside our walls. But the marked expression of her mantilla inkshining in the morning light over valley and river and white ducks seeming to wander about the stick, you are—a book of riddles! The blooming stud was too blooming dull sitting in the packets of fags Stoer smokes that his father had refused to help Mr. Brooke, who lives with his easy shuffling walk, one silver crown. A onelegged sailor, swinging himself onward by lazy jerks of his tradesmen. Now, gentlemen, I am very slow. In Fownes's street Dilly Dedalus, steering his way from the viceregal equipage over the shoulders of eager guests, whose acquaintance with him. The house was still sitting, to Will's immense relief, for the waters.

#Ulysses (novel)#James Joyce #1922 #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Wandering Rocks #George Eliot #Victorian novels #British novelists #Bildungsromaener #didactic literature #Marian Evans #19th century #Middlemarch (novel)

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qqueenofhades · 6 years

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the tangled web of fate we weave: xii

HAPPY GARCY SUNDAY, Y’ALL. I wasn’t sure whether to post this before the episode, since it’ll probably get buried, but @extasiswings and @prairiepirate wanted it and I love to make them happy. So. Here we are.

part xi/AO3.

February 10, 2012

Lucy turns over a glossy proof for the book cover, then another one, trying to tell if there’s much discernible difference (maybe the title typeface is a few points bigger on the first one, and the photo of Lincoln is a little smaller?) or if there is any way she still needs to be here at 10:55 pm on Friday night to sort it out. The answer to that latter question is no, she doesn’t really need to be, but it’s been the week from hell and she hasn’t had much other time to do it. She sent the final line edits and galley proof back on Wednesday, she has the midterm to write for two classes, and there’s a Historian’s Craft workshop that she naïvely volunteered to help with back in December, after someone sent out a panicked email and of course she felt obliged to step in. When you are not quite two years into the job, and are still the lowest in the faculty pecking order, you get stuck with these kinds of things.

Where was she? Right. Book covers. Lucy stares back and forth between them again. It’s not like this has any chance of ending up on the NYT bestseller list, though she’s sure that the University of Chicago Press will appreciate her attention to detail for the hundred copies ordered for other academic libraries. She’s worked hard on the book, though, and she’s proud of it. “Publish or perish” is absolutely a real thing, and she’s had her journal articles, a few chapters in edited volumes, and papers from conference proceedings, but a monograph is different. Good, solid, quantifiable work. She turned twenty-nine a month ago, and here it is. Already has a permanent position at Stanford. Things worked out.

(Things worked out.)

Lucy reaches out to adjust her book lamp and take a dutiful inventory of them both. Spines look the same. Her picture on the back cover is not completely hideous (a shallow thing to be concerned about, perhaps, but there you have it). You don’t really have admiring quotes on academic books the way you do on popular press ones, but whoever has written the blurb for the back cover has made her sound decently appealing. Eeney-meeny-miney-mo?

After a pause, Lucy decides that she’ll just close her eyes and point, and then she will get her things together and go home. It is, after all, Friday night. Noah will be working late, because he does on Fridays, but she can run a bubble bath and maybe drink a glass of wine in the tub. Start that new novel she’s been meaning to. She’s been meaning to. Been meaning a lot.

Lucy closes her eyes, and points at the covers.

She opens her eyes, looks at the winner, decides she likes the other one better, and then wonders if she really does, or she’s just being contrary. What the hell. Not now. It is in fact eleven o’clock, and she wants to go home. She picks up her purse and keys, shrugs on her jacket and throws her scarf around her neck, then steps out of her office and locks it, admiring the “Dr. Lucy Preston” nameplate, as she does every time it catches her eye. It’s supposed to be nice weather this weekend. She’ll see what Amy is up to, maybe. Call Mom. The last doctor’s report came back encouragingly; Carol’s cancer seems to be in remission after the first major round of treatment. She’s been feeling incredibly crappy, since chemo does that to you, but the prognosis, for now, is moderately decent.

Lucy takes the elevator down and steps out into the dark campus, heading for the faculty parking lot. As she always does when she comes out late, she dutifully looks both ways, keeps her keys at hand, and takes an extra look, just in case. Both for the possibility of any muggers – and, well. Just in case he feels like coming back.

(Lucy doesn’t know that she’s proud of getting back together with Noah, exactly. But he is a grownup with a real job, he knows how to be in a relationship, he did still have a torch for her and was willing to give things another try, and if she’s just tired of being alone and wants to have someone in the house when she comes home, that’s not something to be judged for. It’s fine. It’s always been fine. Noah is a caring and attentive partner and has been supportive of her coming down the stretch with the book, given her space when she acts weird, done his best to help her how she needs. It’s comfortable and it’s familiar and it could be much worse. She has nothing to apologize for, to herself or anyone.)

Lucy reaches her car and unlocks it, swinging behind the wheel and turning on the heater; it’s February, it’s still plenty chilly, especially late at night, and she has a Californian’s innate horror of temperatures below fifty degrees Fahrenheit. At least rekindling things with Noah means that she got to move in with him, after six months of living at home again with her mom. It wasn’t bad, she reminds herself. She is glad that she was able to be there for Carol while she was going through the first, worst stages of treatment. But now that the cancer is in remission and the book is done, now is the time to finally, finally ask her mother about Benjamin Cahill. Lucy has been sitting on this secret for two years, weighing heavily on her heart and mind and soul, and held her tongue because she didn’t want to make things worse. But now, now she is going to do it. She hasn’t seen anyone from Rittenhouse, or at least that she knows is from Rittenhouse, since all that shit went down. Hasn’t seen Emma, or Cahill himself, or anyone. It makes her wonder if Flynn did something, made a big enough mess elsewhere that all their attention got pulled off her, or someone issued orders that she was to be left in peace. Why or how, Lucy has no notion. She has been content to pretend those two months in 2010 did not, for the most part, exist. It hurts her too much when she lets them live.

Once the car is decently warm, Lucy pulls out and heads home. Noah finished his residency at Santa Rosa and is at a hospital in Oakland now, but they still live this side of the Bay Bridge. It’s a decent rental townhouse, just achievable with their combined professional salaries (well, Noah’s professional salary – Lucy doesn’t exactly make bank). They’ve been back together for about a year now, and it’s clear that most people feel another proposal is in the offing before long. It’s also clear that if Lucy turns it down a second time, well, that’s a sign that this isn’t the guy to spend her life with, or at least that she wants to. But she hasn’t met anyone else in the real world – in this world, here, now, possibly – that she can actually see herself with, or that is available. Noah might be all there is. It isn’t the case, fish in the sea and all that, but when would she have time to date, throw herself out there for a new relationship? She has a strong introvert streak and the idea is not appealing. No need to mess this up, when Noah is – after all – fine. And yet. She still hopes he doesn’t propose.

There is a light on in the window when Lucy pulls in, and Noah’s car is parked on the driveway, which is surprising. She didn’t think he would be home yet. Maybe they actually had a quiet night at the hospital and let him off rotation early, though that almost never happens. He’ll probably be tired, though, so maybe she can still proceed to the bath-and-wine part of the evening. Or, since it’s late, just hit the hay and go do something tomorrow.

Lucy gets out, locks the car, and heads up the walk, pushing the door open. “Hey, I’m home!”

“In here.” Noah’s voice comes from the living room, sounding… odd. Lucy frowns, suddenly worried. “Can you come in, please?”

“What’s going on?” Lucy shucks her work heels and blazer, hangs her purse on the coat tree, and walks into the living room, where Noah is sitting on the couch with the face he has on when delivering bad news to patients’ families. Oh God, this isn’t about Mom, is it? Noah isn’t her doctor, and there would have to be some major breach of medical ethics for him to have seen her files, but Carol loves Noah and is usually talking to him about this anyway, things she’s seen on the internet, the efficacy of new treatments, one name-brand drug vs. the other, etc. Lucy feels that if her mother wants to use her boyfriend as a free source of information and expertise, she should pay him for it like everyone else would when accessing a professional service, but Noah feels awkward asking, and everyone is sensitive to Carol’s illness, wants to help, make it easier. Seems crass to bring up money for family, after all.

“Hey,” Lucy says tentatively. “I – didn’t realize you were going to be home. What’s going on?”

“I switched shifts,” Noah says. “I took the one on Sunday that nobody wants, so I could come home early and clean and cook dinner and treat you for finishing your book. Anyway, I was doing that, and while I was, I found this in the closet.” He points at the coffee table. “Along with a couple boxes of bullets. You can guess I was pretty surprised.”

Lucy’s stomach flips. It’s the gun that Flynn bought her two years ago, zipped in its case, but in a way that makes it clear Noah opened it and saw what it was. She hasn’t kept up religiously, but she’s still gone to a range every few months, and while she is not a Navy SEAL, she’s not a total joke. This, obviously, has been a private weekend activity that she hasn’t really felt the need to share with anyone else, not even Amy. Maybe Emma went to London like she wanted and Rittenhouse has moved on to bigger and better things than one history professor, but Lucy has never had the luxury of being sure. This, however…

“So,” Noah says, when the silence has gotten painful. “You wanna tell me why you own a gun and have apparently been using it, and haven’t told me about this?”

Lucy winces. “It was just… it’s just been something I’ve been doing on the side.”

“On the side, okay.” Noah looks up at the ceiling. “You know how I feel about this, Lucy. I’m in Oakland, half the cases that come through the ER are kids who’ve gotten shot up, seventeen-year-old gangbangers with three holes in them, or Mr. Fragile Masculinity brought a gun to his workplace because a woman turned him down for a date and boom, six people are dead. I spend five hours trying to save them and still lose them, and I really – ” He pauses, composes himself, and breathes deeply. “I really do not want one in my house.”

Lucy cannot blame him for this at all, given it was how she felt until two years ago. Even more, she can’t really explain how and why she got it in the first place without venturing into deeply perilous territory. “You know,” she says weakly. “Self-defense. Just in case something ever happened, we might – ”

“You work at Stanford University. This is as nice and boring a middle-class neighborhood as they come. If there was a break-in, the cops would be here in five minutes or less.” Noah is clearly trying very hard to keep his tone calm, but the rough edges of anger keep breaking through. “How long have you had this?”

“For a…” Lucy hesitates. “Remember when I turned up at Santa Rosa on that… that really weird weekend, with the… the guy who was shot, and… all that?”

“When you wanted to be called Anna Thompkins and pretend you were his wife?” Noah’s lips tighten. They might be back together, but it is clear that he does not need reminding. “What, was it – did he get it for you?”

“Yes,” Lucy says. “There was a lot of stuff happening. It was a very bizarre few months. I… had reason to think my life might be in danger at a few points, and Fl… he thought it was a good idea if I… if I knew how to use one.”

Noah looks at her even more strangely. “You’ve never mentioned this.”

“I… I know.” Lucy looks down at her hands. “But it was a year before we got back together, and it stopped, and… I just didn’t think it was important.”

“But your last visit to the range was…” Noah pulls a crumpled receipt out of the bullet box and checks it. “December 16, 2011. So just a couple months ago, you still thought it might be important, and it still didn’t feel like something you might share with me?”

“I’m…” Lucy has no excuse. “I guess I didn’t want to bother you with it.”

“We’re together, Lucy! We live together, here, in the same house! If someone might be coming after you, the odds are good they would also be coming after me!” Noah’s cheeks go blotchy red. “Besides, I obviously want you to talk to me if you feel scared, if you think things aren’t right, if there is something I can help you with! I love you, Lucy, it’s not a bother to deal with serious, major situations that are making you feel so unsafe as to buy a damn gun! I just – ” He catches himself again, modulating his tone. “I thought we were working on these things this time around. Second chance, fresh start.”

“We – we were. I mean, we are.” Lucy knits her fingers more tightly. “Noah, believe me, I wish I could explain, but – ”

“You wish you could explain. Maybe, I don’t know, just actually explain? That guy, John Thompkins or whatever he said his name was – you said he was the one who saved your life in that car accident when you were in college, but never anything else about who he was or why he got shot. Those the same people you think might be shooting at you?”

“I… would imagine so,” Lucy says, after a long moment. “Probably. Yes.”

“Jesus Christ.” Noah racks his fingers down his face. “And one small woman with a handgun is going to stop those kinds of people, is she?”

“It’s better than not having it.”

“As long as they only attacked you at home? Or have you been bringing it when you go out too?”

“I – no, I’ve just been going to the range every few months or so.”

“Right. Okay.” Noah clearly can’t decide whether be relieved or even angrier. “Have you seen John Thompkins recently?”

“No.” Lucy can’t quite keep the hollowness out of her tone. “I don’t think I will. The last time, we… he made it clear he was… not planning on coming back.”

Noah glances at her sidelong. Then he says, “Well. Honestly, he seemed like bad news. I know he saved your life a couple times, but maybe it isn’t coincidence that he’s disappeared and the scary shit stopped. You think?”

“Maybe it isn’t,” Lucy agrees. “And if you’re going to ask, no. I have literally no idea where he is. It could be anywhere.” Anywhen?

“Okay.” Noah blows out another breath. “Look, I don’t want to be outrageous about this, but you were the one who hid a gun in the house and thought we might be attacked and didn’t say anything to me about it, I feel like I have at least a leg to stand on. I really do not want it here. I’m not saying you have to get rid of it altogether, but like – take it to your mom’s and stick it in the attic or something. Somewhere like that. Can that be the compromise, Lucy? Please?”

Lucy hesitates. This is, again, an entirely reasonable offer – completely in character, things with Noah are never bad, they are always fine. This has been a shock and he’s rightfully angry, but he’s trying to work through it and be reasonable. “Okay. I’ve been meaning to talk to her anyway. The – the first round of chemo is finally done, and she’s – she’s in remission.”

“That’s great to hear.” Noah stands up. “I’m sorry I didn’t get around to making your dinner. We’ll reschedule. I think I’m just going to take a shower and go to bed. Night, Lucy.”

“Night,” Lucy echoes, turning her face up so he can peck her quickly on the cheek. Once he’s gone upstairs and she hears the water start running, she sags back on the couch and feels as if that went a lot worse than, strictly speaking, it did. As well, she hasn’t so much as spoken Flynn’s name aloud since the last time she saw him. They drove to Columbus, discovered that it would be cheaper and nonstop to fly from Cincinnati instead, and got most of the way there before the RV finally and spectacularly gave up the ghost. Had to hitchhike the last thirty miles to the airport, but were finally picked up by a kindly trucker, while Flynn sat glaring with his hand on his gun inside his jacket the whole time. Lucy was afraid that someone would sneeze and set off a bullet hailstorm, but they made it. Flew back to San Francisco and stood in the terminal awkwardly, since it was clear that Flynn wasn’t staying here, but wanted to wait until she left before getting onto his next flight. She was going back to her life, and he was leaving his altogether.

(“Goodbye, Lucy,” and a handshake. A handshake. He walked her out to arrivals, then as she was standing on the curb waiting for a bus into downtown, she looked over her shoulder for him one more time, and he had vanished in the crowd.)

Lucy rubs both hands over her face, trying to feel better, which doesn’t work. She knows why Noah was angry, as he had every right to be, but what’s making it worse is the fact that she doesn’t know if she should in fact have gotten rid of the gun months ago. She has no clue what’s happening with Rittenhouse or Flynn or the fucking time machine or any of the utterly bizarre shit that dominated her life for those few months in 2010. Noah is right that maybe Flynn’s disappearance and the world going back to normal are correlated, and Lucy should be grateful for that. To some degree, she is. But why, why is she still half-expecting, half-hoping to see Flynn waiting for her when she leaves campus late? Reappear out of the blue with some miraculous plan to defeat Rittenhouse and return the world to normal? But if it is… or is this just another illusion, another thin veneer of safety, to be shattered in turn? She doesn’t know. She has no idea. For someone like Lucy, that’s her worst nightmare.

At last, Lucy gets up, goes upstairs, and feels like Noah might not be altogether interested in sharing a bed with her tonight. So she goes into the guest room and pulls out the futon, piles on some pillows and quilts from the closet, and crawls in, burying herself like a mole. Tomorrow. She’ll go by Mom’s tomorrow and finally get some answers. Drop off the gun (but maybe Carol doesn’t need to know exactly what it is either). Sort this out.

Lucy dozes off eventually, has weird dreams, and wakes up late the next morning. When she shuffles downstairs, Noah is gone, but he has left a plate of blueberry pancakes as an apparent peace offering, and Lucy is not too proud to eat them with butter and syrup. Then she showers, gets dressed in her flannels and sweats since it’s Saturday and she looks nice the rest of the time, and carefully packs the gun and ammo in a box with lots of other newspapers and knickknacks and other stuff she’s been meaning to clear out. There. Nothing suspicious. She loads it into the car, pulls on her sunglasses, and heads out.

Twenty-odd minutes later, Lucy turns into her mom’s driveway, parks, and gets out with the box. Trundles up the walk, running over her script in her head one more time – how to bring this all up in a gentle but firm way, and not be sidetracked again. Her mom can be good at doing that. But this is a good time to clear the air, she won’t get a better chance. She just has to… do it.

Lucy shifts the box onto her hip, and knocks.

After a pause, she hears footsteps, the deadbolt chain unlocks, and her mom, wearing a bathrobe and a flowery beanie, opens the door. Her hair is just starting to grow back in after the first round of chemo, and Carol, a woman who is always impeccably put together, is self-conscious; she wears a wig in public, and a variety of fashionable hats otherwise. She still looks thin, but better, and smiles warmly. “Lucy. What a surprise.”

“Hi, Mom.” Lucy takes a better grip on the box. “We – well, Noah was doing a little spring cleaning, and there’s just some stuff that we don’t really have room for. Can I possibly pop this in the attic? Then we can have some coffee and talk.”

“Of course.” Carol opens the door and steps back to invite her. “How’s the book going?”

“I just finished it. Picked the cover, I can show you. It’s in my purse.” Lucy shuffles in, hauls the box up the stairs, and up the creaky, dusty, fold-out ladder that leads to the attic. She puts it down with a clunk, feeling better that she has done as Noah wanted, and worse that the gun is now out of her house and out of easy reach if, God forbid, she did need it. Maybe she can sneak back here and pick it up again anyway. There has to be somewhere else in the house that Noah won’t find it. Or just –

“Lucy? What are you doing up there?”

She jumps. “Coming, Mom.”

With that, she puts a crate of Christmas decorations and a blanket on top of the box, feeling like Harry hiding the Horcrux in the Room of Requirement, then climbs back down the ladder, brushing the dust off. She follows Carol down to the sunny kitchen, where they sit down. She waves off the offer of tea, since she’s just had breakfast, goes in circles with some small talk about the book and how the classes are going, then finally tells herself that it is now or never. “So, Mom. I was… hoping we could talk.”

“Isn’t that what we’re doing?” Carol asks. “You’ve been so busy, but – ”

“Yes, of course. I just meant.” Lucy steels herself. “About Benjamin Cahill.”

There is a long and very nasty pause. Her mother goes somewhat pale (or at least, paler). Her thin fingers tap out a rhythm on the tabletop, stop, then tap again. Finally she says, rather too levelly, “Where did you hear about Benjamin?”

“I met him. Actually. A while ago. He told me.” Lucy looks her mother straight in the eye. “Who he is. Is there any reason for him to be lying about it?”

“He… no.” Carol looks crumpled. “He’s… he is your biological father. But Lucy… the situation was difficult, I was young, I know you may be angry at me, but try to see it from my point of view. Henry was a wonderful father to you and Amy, there was never any need to – ”

“Dad was.” Lucy’s throat feels rather thick, as if she can’t call him that without qualification any more, but Henry Wallace is the only man in her life who remotely earned the title, and he gets to keep it. “Dad was great. But don’t you think that I might have needed to know this at some point? If nothing else, for medical histories and whatever, if not for the fact that I had a father that neither of you ever thought it was important for me to know?” Having met Cahill herself, she understands, but maybe he wasn’t always like that.

Carol raises a hand. “Lucy – how did – when did you learn this?”

Lucy isn’t sure if the truth is better or worse in this instance, but she doesn’t feel like it’s the moment for more lies. “Two years ago. He came by Stanford. He was very interested in recruiting me into – some society of his.”

“Some society?” Carol looks puzzled. “What was that?”

“Never mind. It was… it was all a little strange. I thought that might be why you had put distance between us, why you… why you never told me about him.”

“Lucy, you’ve known about this for two years, and you haven’t told me about it?”

“You knew and didn’t tell me for twenty-nine years of my life, so.” Lucy looks at her mother evenly. “I think I still have some catching up to do.”

“That’s not fair, sweetheart. I’ve been sick, I’ve – ”

“Yes, you have, and I’ve been worried about you. I moved home for several months, I spent the week after I graduated going with you to doctor’s appointments, I didn’t say anything until we got the news that you were in remission because I didn’t want to add to your stress. I’ve waited, I’ve been patient. And you weren’t sick before. You could have told me before.”

“You sound very hostile right now.” Carol surveys her daughter with a frown. “Lucy, if there’s all this anger, it can’t be healthy that you’ve just let it build up. You know you could try to – ”

“It’s my fault that I’m upset about you lying about my father?” Lucy gets half to her feet with a clatter. “You can’t even let me have this without telling me how to do it better?”

“Sweetheart, that is not what I meant. Sit back down, please. Let’s talk about this like grownups. I don’t know how much Benjamin told you, but – ”

“It sounded creepy, frankly.” Lucy hesitates, but sits. “He says that he was a visiting professor at Stanford and you were in his class. Please tell me that is not when you… slept together.” No one wants to think about their parents’ sex life, period, but still. She needs to know that that at least is not the case, though it won’t be any less squicky.

“It was after,” Carol says. “It was just a brief thing. He was in another relationship, and for various reasons, we agreed that it was best to continue on our separate ways. He did send some money, sometime. It was all very discreet and professional.”

Discreet and professional. Just the words you want to hear about your parents getting together, after – by the sound of things – Benjamin Cahill cheated on his girlfriend/wife with a pretty young student, knocked her up, then vamoosed. Lucy’s mouth tastes sour, as if the more she learns about this, the more horrifying it gets. “And you were okay with that?”

“Look.” Carol puts her hand over Lucy’s. “It was a long time ago. I’ve made my peace with it. Do you want to know the best thing about Benjamin Cahill? He gave me you.”

Lucy opens her mouth, then shuts it. She looks down at their fingers, the sunlight pooling on the table. Doesn’t want to ask this next question, but still. Finally she says, very carefully, “Did he ever mention anything called Rittenhouse?”

“Rittenhouse? That’s an odd name. What was it supposed to be?”

“Some… weird secret society. He’s very into it. Some – well, some stuff happened around when you were first diagnosed, and… like I said, I thought that was why you decided it was better not for me to know him.”

“He may have mentioned it in passing, I don’t remember.” Carol shakes her head. “The Cahills were a wealthy family, well-connected – his father was an aide in the White House, I do remember that. Eisenhower administration. They had all kinds of political and philanthropic projects. I can’t be sure of them. Why?”

“I just… I met a few of their people, around the same time I met him. They’re very… intense.” Lucy tries to think how to phrase this without worrying her mother. “I – I used to know someone who wanted to look into them, and I just thought…”

Carol’s eyes sharpen. “I’m sorry, you knew who?”

“Just… a guy.” Not that she would do a damn bit of good with the information. It’s not like she’s going to randomly run into Flynn in the Starbucks line. “But if you remembered anything useful, then I just – ”

“Whatever it is,” Carol says with great finality, “it’s his business, Lucy, and it does sound like it’s better to stay away from it, so I think you should. But I don’t think you’ve ever mentioned this friend of yours who wanted to look into a Rittenhouse.”

“It was a while ago. We’re… not in contact anymore.”

Carol glances at her. Then, seemingly as a non sequitur but Lucy can tell that it’s not, she says, “So how are things with Noah?”

“Things with Noah are fine.” Lucy isn’t sure she’s ever given another answer to that question in her life. “He – was going to cook me dinner at some point to celebrate the book getting done. You know we’re both busy, it’s just whenever we can – ”

“Well,” Carol says. “Now that you’ve been back together for a year, you’ve moved in together, have you given any more thought to what a next step might look like? Noah did ask me the other day if you had any more thoughts about… you know. A proposal.”

“What?” Lucy feels a sudden urge to get up and walk out of the house. “He was asking you if we should get engaged?”

“Not necessarily. But he did want to know if you had changed your mind on that at all.”

“I…” Whatever Noah was asking about, Lucy isn’t sure he still thinks the same after the gun reveal, which is almost a perverse relief. “Look, what we have is – it works, all right? It doesn’t need to change or have labels or – you know, any of that. It doesn’t need to be messed up.”

Carol’s brow furrows. “Messed up is a strange way to describe marrying the man you love, Lucy. You do love him, don’t you?”

“Y – yeah, of course.” Lucy glances at the clock. “You two are apparently still friends, so… that’s great. Hey, how about I get my cover proofs? I can show you those.”

Carol eyes her, but deigns to accept the change of subject. Lucy fetches the covers from her purse, Carol thinks she should have chosen the other one, and corrects a split infinitive on the back cover copy. Then finally, Lucy kisses her on the cheek, tells her that she’s happy to see her doing better, and heads out.

It’s a nice day, and she goes out to sit at a coffee shop, hoping that nobody she’s supposed to impress will see her slumming it like a student in her sweatpants. (Professors are human too, you know.) But even though she’s finally gotten a few answers, nothing feels as if it has fallen magically into place. Benjamin Cahill was a skeezeball, her mother doesn’t know anything about Rittenhouse, Noah was kicking around the idea of proposing or at least before he discovered a gun in her shoebox, and Carol’s last question is what Lucy is going to start on next, now that she’s finished the Lincoln book. Nothing exactly earth-shaking. Lucy has clung tenaciously to this life, has insisted on going back and burrowing into it as a defense mechanism, and of course, of course she loves it. But she isn’t sure she likes it any more.

(She wishes – she wishes – that she could just see Flynn again. Know where he’s been. What he’s doing. If he’s even still alive. Rittenhouse could have shot him and dumped him in a shallow grave, and she would never, never know.)

But she’s not going to. She can’t keep hoping, waiting for a man who has, yet again, become all but a ghost, and she didn’t. Moved on with her life, in all senses of the word. Yet if Lucy’s honest, she knows there is a part of her that doesn’t want to accept any possible proposal from Noah, because she doesn’t want Flynn to turn up two days afterward and explain that he has some grand plan to finally defeat Rittenhouse, and she should once more leave her entire life and come with him to do that. It wouldn’t be fair. To Noah.

(That’s what she’s going with. Unfair to Noah.)

And yet. It doesn’t matter. Because it feels, at last, as if Garcia Flynn is finally and truly gone, and the only real way to describe that is heartbreak.

It’s Saturday night, February the eleventh, and Wyatt and Jessica Logan are fighting.

They have in fact been fighting almost non-stop recently, and took a break from fighting at home to go to a bar, which has just resulted in them fighting in public. They’re keeping their voices down, they’re not making a scene, mostly just hissing at each other over their beer and smiling unconvincingly at anyone who might glance over. The idea was that they would get a change of scenery and talk about this over drinks, but that does not appear to be happening. After the whole San Francisco fiasco, Wyatt went home, apologized a lot, and promised they were turning over a new leaf. Then three weeks later he took a months-long assignment tracking two major cocaine cartels from Colombia, one of the most dangerous jobs he’s ever had (and that’s saying a lot). With his previous exploits and Spanish-language ability, he was pretty damn good at it, but he’s still obviously an American gringo, and he came home with yet more damage. Had nightmares. Won’t go see a shrink. Jessica says he’s deliberately stonewalling her, burning them down, and she is at her fucking wit’s end.

(He’s not, he’s not – not on purpose, he’s not, he’s not. Pendleton disagreed with this assessment and put him on leave, but it didn’t help. Wyatt was antsy, unpleasant, itchy, needed to go out, needed to get back to the war – any war, really. It gives him form and definition and purpose, and he doesn’t know, he doesn’t know, what is so deeply fucked up inside him that he wants it more than to rest at home with a woman who loves him.)

Jessica says it’s pretty obvious he either can’t or doesn’t want to change, that she loves him but isn’t sure how much longer she can stand living with him. They have met with a marriage counselor a few times, but Wyatt hates doctors and he isn’t sure how this is supposed to help them. He knows what’s wrong – that he’s chronically uncommunicative, hot-tempered, difficult, drinks a lot, and is prone to vanishing for months on highly dangerous classified missions – but that then implies there is any way for it to stop. Wyatt has tried, he’s tried over and over. He loves Jess and wants it to work as much as she does. He’s tried eating the rabbit food that Californians love so much, he took pills for a while but they fucked up his reflexes, he’s even given the whole Kumbaya cleansing thoughts and scented candles a whirl. None of it works. He’s still stuck in his head, looking at himself being this person, and he hates it so much he sometimes thinks that if he just switched off tomorrow and did not reactivate for five years, he wouldn’t mind. Wipe the mainframe and perform a complete reinstall/reboot.

Jessica says that fad diet and happy thoughts aren’t going to help serious, pervasive long-term depression and PTSD – it’s clinical, it’s a disease, why won’t he just see a doctor. Wyatt snaps back that clearly everything is his fault in this relationship. Jessica is less able to keep her voice down as she points out that she didn’t say that, and he doesn’t keep his down at all as he fires back that she was definitely thinking it. Heads turn. A hush falls over the room.

Wyatt’s face burns. He gets to his feet and pulls $10 out of his pocket, palms it down on the counter. “Keep the change,” he says. “Jess. Let’s go.”

Jessica pauses, then icily swings her purse to her shoulder and stalks after him, as Wyatt can feel the eyes of everyone in the bar following them. They are obviously wondering if this is the kind of situation where they should have spoken up and done something, but nobody moves to openly interfere. They walk stiffly into the parking lot and get into the car.

Wyatt is hoping the argument can wait until they get home, but Jessica says she just wants to know what’s wrong with him, and Wyatt – perhaps since this is the one question he has no answer to, is so terrified about – can feel himself snap. He slams on the brakes and shouts that fine, if she thinks he’s so terrible, she doesn’t need to stay close to him for a second longer. Get out. Door’s right there. It’s not that far home. Nice night. She can fucking walk.

Jessica stares at him for the longest, most nauseous moment in the world, white to the lips. Then she nods once, rips her seatbelt off, and practically kicks the door open. Steps out – Wyatt catches a glimpse of her face in the rearview mirror, glowing demonic red in the hue of the brake lights – and stands there, waiting for him to pull away, until he does. The tires scrape and squeal. He’s not drunk, but he’s possibly had more than he should to be driving. It’s not far. It’s not far.

It is, of course, barely ten minutes later when Wyatt feels as if he’s had a bucket of freezing water sluiced over him, and realizes that leaving your wife on the side of a dark road late at night is an awful, awful thing to do no matter how angry you are at her (and especially when she is 100% right about what a fucked-up mess you are). He whips the car around and lays even more rubber racing back to where he left her – where he thinks he did, at least. He didn’t get a good look at the mile marker, but it was around here. He parks, grabs a flashlight from the glove box, and jumps out. “Jess? Jess! Jessica! JESSICA!”

He sweeps the anemic beam of the flashlight back and forth, heart pounding in his throat, mouth dry as a desert, all his drunken caveman rage burned off. He climbs down into the bushes, skins his hands on the gravel and bangs his legs on the sharp edge of a drainage culvert, but he deserves that, he deserves the pain. He crunches through the bracken, catches the glow of eyes and has a heart attack, but it’s only a raccoon. Maybe he didn’t go far enough. He climbs back and gets in the car and cruises along slowly, window down, shouting for her. A car full of teenagers whips past, faces laughing and grotesque as carnival masks. They think it’s a joke. “Jesssssicaaaa!” they yodel back at him. “Jessiccaaaaaaaa!”

Wyatt drives up and down every part of the road between their house and the bar at least five times. Panic is starting to take over his head, banging like a neighbor’s too-loud music through a wall, drilling and relentless. Jesus. Jesus Christ, this is all his fault. She can’t be gone, she’ll turn up. Someone probably stopped, like a sane person would, to see if a woman on the side of the road was all right, and took her to their place. Or if someone else, someone not a sane person, stopped, and –

By the time Wyatt has realized sickeningly that she’s definitely not here, it’s almost three in the morning. He goes home and calls her cell, which isn’t answered. Calls it again, leaves a message begging her to let him know that she is safe. She doesn’t have to come home, if she’s still angry. But please, please, please let him know that she is safe.

Wyatt dozes fitfully for a few fractured hours, phone in his hand, until his morning alarm goes off. He sits upright immediately, but he can tell she isn’t home. He calls her back again, another three times. Likewise, none of these are answered. This isn’t like Jess. She’s angry, she has every right to be, but the one of them who ditches without a word is Wyatt. If she was safe, if she was in any position to do so, she would have called, or at least texted, by now. Something is wrong. Something’s wrong.

Wyatt goes out and gets in the car to make one more search by daylight, just in case. But when this doesn’t turn up anything, he knows what he has to do. Drives downtown to the police station, and says he needs to file a missing person report.

He can tell that the cop who takes down the information isn’t terribly impressed at hearing about the circumstances in which Mrs. Logan has vanished, but it’s not his job to comment on that. He does ask several times if Wyatt is being forthcoming with everything he knows – as it obviously looks very easy for Wyatt to have whacked her over the temple with a tire jack, hidden the body somewhere, and turn up here to file a report to make it seem like he’s worried. When a wife goes missing, the husband usually did it, and it is an especially bad look when the husband is a military man who was arguing with her beforehand. Wyatt swears up and down that he has never laid a hand on Jess, which is the truth. Their fights can get ugly, but they’ve never turned physical. He would never, ever hurt her.

The police officer remains skeptical, but allows that search teams and K9 units will be dispatched, and if Wyatt has an item of clothing with Jessica’s scent on it, that will help. Wyatt fetches it for them, feeling numb and dreamy. Yesterday was almost ordinary, before it started going downhill with the argument around four o’clock. Today he’s standing in a police station talking about sniffer dogs and search arrangements. This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening. He needs to press rewind and play it out again.

Once that’s settled, Wyatt heads home, slaps together a missing poster on Microsoft Publisher, and runs out as many copies on his printer as he can before its toner goes dry. Then he feverishly heads out and starts tacking them to street corners and utility poles. It strikes him that he has not called anyone since this started, has no sibling or friend or even a god damn poker buddy out here helping him. He should call someone. He needs to call someone. But then he’d have to say the words “Jess is gone, and it’s my fault” out loud, and that might break him. He needs to hold it together until this is over. His bullshit has already cost them – cost her – this much. If by some God-given miracle she comes home, she walks through that door again, he will do absolutely whatever she wants. Therapy, counseling, you name it. He has been an idiot – understandably in some ways, but still an idiot – and this is the bolt from the heavens that he was overdue to get. She has to come back. Has to. Has to.

Wyatt gets concerned, confused, wary, or sympathetic looks from people as he wanders along, offering them the poster. There are plenty of people who pretend they don’t notice and motor on past with their headphones in, because humanity is terrible sometimes. A nice older couple wants to know if there is anything they can do for him, and Wyatt reflexively tells them that he’s got it under control. He does not, he has never had it less under control, but it seems to be an answer he can’t get away from even now. He thanks them for their concern. They promise they will pray for him. Great, he thinks. Great.

Wyatt is sunburned and footsore by the time he gets home, but it feels wrong to sit down and relax, to be comfortable, while Jess is out there enduring God knows what from God knows who. He takes just enough of a shower to refresh, gulps down whatever is in the cupboard, and prepares to go back out again. He’s not going to be allowed to help directly with the search, because they still haven’t formally ruled him out as a suspect, but he has promised to be back at the police station for a longer interview at five o’clock. Needs to look less like a disaster. Shaves. Puts on a sport coat, a pair of nice trousers, and heads out to get in the car.

By the time he walks into the precinct, he can tell that something’s changed just from the way they look at him, and he isn’t sure that he likes it. They shake hands, ask him if he wants a glass of water, maybe they should go to the back and sit down. Wyatt has been around law enforcement long enough to know that when they start going for the tender concern angle, it’s usually because they’re trying to lull you off guard for a big reveal, or it’s because it’s bad-news-breaking time and they have no further reason to play hardball. And this… doesn’t feel like they’re going for the bait and switch. This feels bad.

By the time Wyatt is in fact sitting down in the briefing room, he has a terrible feeling that he knows what they’re going to say, and is clenching his hands white-knuckled on his knees, trying to prepare himself for it, trying to breathe in short, juddering gasps in case he forgets altogether afterward. The police chief sits down and calls him Sergeant Logan – yeah, respectful title, he’s the grieving husband now instead of the suspicious possible domestic abuser. They have completed their search of the area, and they have in fact found a large patch of blood in thick undergrowth, about three-quarters of a mile from where he left her, that matches with Jessica’s DNA. There is a trace amount of other blood present as well, which they can’t identify, but is that of another human, suggesting someone grabbed her, Jessica fought back, and there was a struggle. They are going to continue to put resources out there and track down any leads, any perps with violent-crime rap sheets in the area, conduct interviews. But at this point, they aren’t expecting to find Mrs. Logan in a state compatible with life. They are very sorry, and they offer him their full support.

At that, Wyatt almost collapses. Fucking – not in a state compatible with life. Fucking jargon, fucking military/police jargon, the kind he has used himself, plenty of times. Just say it, he wants to scream at them. Just say dead. Dead. DEAD! Four little letters! Just fucking say it! I deserve it! This is my fault. This is my fault. My fault. My fault!

Someone goes out to get him another glass of water, and someone asks if he wants to speak to the staff chaplain. Wyatt barely hears any of it. The world reels by in heightened fantasia blurs like a bad acid trip. He sits there in the chair with a weird, detached awareness that this is somehow happening, he is living through the worst moment of his life, it is going by right there, right in front of his nose. It’s happening and it keeps happening and it won’t stop happening and all he can think, all he can think, is yes – it could have been some local lowlife. But what if it wasn’t. What if it wasn’t.

(He’s done as he promised, after he signed the stupid affidavit. He knows it was a bad idea, but – he did as ordered, he gave up the Rittenhouse hunt, he went back to his ordinary life with his wars and his broken head and his long-suffering wife, he didn’t look any more, and he fooled himself that that meant it was all fine.)

And at that, a strange, preternatural clarity falls over Wyatt. It’s not relief, exactly, but it feels so good, even for just a minute, after the initial madness and horror and distraught heartbreak, that he almost cries. Because if that’s the case, if there is one tiny wedge he can drive into this heart of darkness and make it crack, if there is something he might be able to do that the police can’t – if he’s lost everything that mattered, so why not take the risk –

There is something he needs to do.

There is someone he needs to find.

Jiya Marri started work at Mason Industries two months ago. Rufus Carlin fell in love with her about one month, twenty-nine days, five hours, and – oh, let’s say seventeen minutes ago.

He was probably doomed the instant she walked in – dark ponytail bouncing, stuff packed in a bulging Caltech tote, and a Star Trek scarf wrapped around her neck, the proud result of a “Groundbreaking Women in STEM” fellowship program that Connor Mason sponsored, with the winner offered a job at Mason Industries to design, build, and launch their own app, high-tech project, social transformation scheme, or something else at the cutting, cutting edge. Connor brought her around to meet the team, and Rufus, noting the Caltech and Star Trek accessories, made an awkward joke that he, as the resident MIT/Star Wars diehard, was probably going to be her biggest problem here. Jiya just gave him a bring-it-on-nerd-boy look, smiled, and told him that she was looking forward to it.

It’s not like Rufus hasn’t met smart women before – he has grown up with them, went to school with them, works with plenty of them. It’s not that Jiya is “Not Like Other Girls,” a phrase Rufus hates, but that just she seems so comfortable with being, well, a geek. And that is not a reflection on geek girls, because Rufus has found they are often much easier to get along with and much more enthusiastic and self-deprecating about their interests than unbearably pretentious and insecure geek boys. It’s partly because he wishes he could be more like Jiya, have a little more trust that the world would like him if he came out of his shell. Jiya writes fanfic and has a Tumblr account, goes to cons, does cosplay for various fandoms, has a Twitter where she hilariously and scathingly takes down misogynistic fuckwits on the Internet (so, Rufus thinks, most of the Internet, then). She writes guest blog posts on everything from advanced theoretical technology concepts to why Kirk/Spock is a classic love story among the greats of literature. She can do crazily difficult equations in a couple of minutes, scribbled on the back of a lunch napkin. She has fought through her fair share of bullshit to get here, absolutely. But she’s then powered right on far past it, up, up, up into the stars. Looking at her, Rufus genuinely believes anything is possible (considering what Connor has been working on for the past several years, that’s saying a lot) and he would give anything, anything, for just a little of that to rub off on him.

Rufus knows he’s no slacker, and he’s proud of that. You don’t go from a black kid growing up on the South Side of Chicago in a not-great neighborhood, to where he is now, without some serious ambition and drive (and luck) along the way. He’s made plenty of money and managed to buy his mom and little brother a new house out here, they’ve moved to California and put down new roots. He is part of the lead team on – (it still takes a moment every time he says it, even in his head) – developing a god damn time machine. Rufus knows he’s valuable and knows he’s smart and knows he’s done a lot. It just somehow never feels like it.

Then again, Rufus supposes, maybe it’s better if he just stays safely within the protective cocoon of Mason Industries for his entire life, let other people be the Steve Jobs and the Mark Zuckerbergs of the world, get the attention and the billions and the name recognition. His one brief foray out, with Wyatt Logan, did not go terribly well. He thinks that maybe Wyatt shouldn’t feel bad for leaving him behind (they aren’t friends, he made it plain that he didn’t trust the dude, of course Wyatt cleared out) because once he got back to Mason Industries with Cahill’s Corporate Creepos from Hell, he went in, found Connor, and handed him the recording device that Mason insisted he take, when Rufus told him that Wyatt was giving him a ride. Here, Rufus said. Don’t know what that was about, but… fine, here.

Thank you. Mason took it and stowed it carefully inside his jacket pocket. Oh, and Rufus? Word of advice? Don’t go gallivanting off with Wyatt Logan any more. It’s rather a bad look, and… well. You know I’ve always had your best interests at heart, so really do listen to me on this one. If he does get in contact again, inform me immediately.

This sounded a little odd to Rufus even back then, but as per usual, he settled on not asking any questions. He likewise has gone back to his life, of working on new bits of supporting technology for the time machine. It’s been rough – Anthony did the first major run out beyond just the few-second temporal displacements, which have been dangerous enough, and as a result, he was in a coma for eight months. Rufus visited the hospital faithfully until he woke up, because Anthony has sponsored his intellectual development just as much as Connor. It would be easy for a middle-aged white-guy engineer, especially working on this, to just blow someone like Rufus off, but Anthony has always trusted him and valued his advice. Loyalty is the one thing Rufus prizes the most, and he returned the favor.

Now, however, Anthony’s awake and mostly back to work, and Mason Industries is taking a team trip to London as part of the festivities surrounding the 2012 Olympic Summer Games taking place there later this year. Connor Mason, hometown boy made good, returning to his roots to share his improvements and breakthroughs. He’s chartered a private jet for the whole staff, and while Rufus is side-eyeing the timing a bit (who wants to go to London in February? Couldn’t it have been in actual summer?) he’s obviously not about to turn up his nose too much. As he steps on board the plush plane (ivory leather seats, gilded trim and wood paneling, the whole nine) carrying his duffel bag, he glances around and tries to see if a) Jiya is already on board, and b) if there’s an open seat anywhere near her. It’s a long flight from San Francisco to London, after all, and maybe they could chat a bit.

By happy coincidence, there is one relatively nearby, which Rufus takes. Jiya has her headphones on and a dog-eared Anne McCaffrey Dragonriders of Pern paperback open, though, so he doesn’t want to bother her. They’ll be in London for a week, and maybe Rufus can take her to get fish and chips, or whatever it is that Brits do for a date. While assuring her seventy billion times that it’s not a date, because he does not want to be creepy. Or is it creepier if he does that? God, he is so bad at this.

They take off and fly into the falling night. Rufus stares out the window and watches the distant pinpricks of light wheel past below them, though he starts dozing off about the time they turn only to black and the flight tracker shows they’re out over the Atlantic Ocean. Rufus thinks then of Anthony, steering a time machine out into the uttermost void, the deepest darkness, a world beyond uncharted, where not even the dragons have proper form or name. Beyond Apollo 8 and the dark side of the moon, beyond a place any human can think of or have a proper conceptual idea of. A few of the techies are really interested in asking the test pilots how it actually feels, to leave time and space behind, to move in dimensions the human brain is not remotely equipped to comprehend. Not Rufus. Even the idea gives him a chill. He might be curious on an academic, theoretical-interest level, but he has no desire to ever experience it for himself. Sometimes he wonders if it’s the right thing to do – they can, it’s there, it’s possible, but as he knows well, something done because someone can do it doesn’t mean they should. All the Mason Industries test pilots basically have to sign their own will before taking the job, prove they either have no dependents or have made the proper arrangements for their care in the event of their sudden and unfortunate decease. It’s not quite the Tuskegee syphilis scandal, obviously, and everyone involved knows what they’re getting in for. Mason himself is a black man, he is aware of this. But still. Rufus wonders.

Rufus sleeps for the main leg over the ocean, and wakes as they are touching down in London the next morning. In proper English fashion, it’s raining as they shuffle into Heathrow, pass customs, and are shown to the chauffeured cars that Mason, naturally, has waiting; no cramming onto the Underground for them. As they glide into the city, Rufus turns to Jiya and clears his throat. “So, uh, if it stops raining, maybe we should go look around? Just, you know, whatever seems cool?”

“It will never stop raining,” Mason remarks, overhearing him, with the jaded demeanor of a true Londoner. “Just do take a brolly and be back by six for our opening dinner. If you don’t want to sleep off the jetlag, that is?”

“I’ll probably crash as soon as the dinner’s over, but I’m feeling okay right now.” Rufus glances at Jiya, wondering if he should then invite their other coworkers to prove it’s not a date. But he doesn’t really want to. “You?”

“Yeah, I’d rather make the most of it,” Jiya says. “We should freshen up first once we get to the hotel, but sure, I’m up for it.”

Rufus hastily tries to quash the flare of excited and apprehensive victory in his stomach, as he still has plenty of chances to screw this up somehow. They arrive at the hotel, check in (everyone gets their own room – you really don’t realize how many doors money can open and how much a billion dollars is, until you hang out with a billionaire – Rufus has never quite gotten used to it) and while some employees elect to snooze until dinner tonight, Rufus and Jiya hastily change out of their comfy flight clothes and into something a little more non-embarrassing for public. Then they pick up the envelopes with their daily allowance of spending money (£100 apiece, and Connor has promised to increase it if anyone feels pinched), make sure they have umbrellas and a map, and head out.

The rain has thinned to an atmospheric mist, the trees have faint hints of green on them, black cabs and red buses rush past (Rufus is completely mixed up about which way he needs to look crossing the street, and hopes he doesn’t end up plastered to the front of one of them) and of course, it’s London. They wander past the various touristy sites – Westminster, Big Ben, the Houses of Parliament, Trafalgar Square, the Tower of London, the London Eye, etc. – chat, and take goofy pictures. It’s possibly one of the best days of Rufus’s life, even if he starts yawning hardcore around three PM and suggests they return to the hotel for a power nap before dinner. First, however, they duck into Covent Garden Market to grab coffee. Jiya wanders away to look at one of the stalls, Rufus sips his latte, and feels as if he has actually had a successful day with a girl, miracles are real. Hopefully he can keep it up, and –

Just then, someone standing behind him taps him on the shoulder, and he turns automatically, a little surprised. Maybe it’s just another of their coworkers out to carpe the diem, but –

Rufus doesn’t recognize the tall, dark-featured man, though something makes him think he should. The newcomer is wearing a trim leather jacket and jeans, a scarf and a newsboy cap, looking like the rest of the fashionable denizens of central London, but he has one hand in his pocket, and he pulls it out just far enough to let Rufus see that he’s holding what appears to be a gun. The Brit laws are a lot more strict than the American ones. What the fu –

“Hello, Rufus,” the man says. His voice is gravelly and accented, his eyes cool and level and more than a little frightening. “I’d like you to come with me.”

#lucy x flynn #garcy #garcy ff #timeless ff #wyatt x jessica #riya #the tangled web of fate we weave

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