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Bodice, 1890's

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27. pulling the other one towards them; for the r/v post-1795 au?

“I heard the widows,” said Vicki, lifelessly, too long after Roger asked her what she was doing out here, so close the edge – without anything but a familiar, moth-eaten cardigan, completely inadequate to the cold and wind. He was huddled in his own coat, but unbuttoned to offer it. Vicki didn’t notice. He set it aside, stepping a little closer. The wind was playing in her hair. “You’re not –” married, but that was too cruel to say, “– not a widow.” “Burke’s lawyers think I am – or close enough. That he left a provision for his fiancée.” She moved, slowly, uncrossing her arms, holding out behind her the envelope that had arrived that day: postmarked in Manhattan, and the prestige of the firm obvious from the quality of the paper and the arrangement of names. It was a moment or two before he realized she meant for him to take it – worse, to read it. He shook his head. He didn’t want to. “He’s not dead.” “Legally.” “We don’t know he’s dead.” “He was on that plane, and everyone on that plane is.” He thought of protesting, but the facts of the case were too grisly to say out loud, even in a place like this; he bit them back instead: that there wasn’t enough left of anyone to identify positively, that if there were only ashes, how impossible was it that one man in twenty could have survived? It left the taste of bile in his mouth, and he told himself he wouldn’t think why. Without much conviction, he said – oh. “A little bit of hope is not such a bad thing, my dear.” Who was he saying that for? Vicki made a sad little noise; a scrap of hope that barely needed a single small hand to be throttled. At least when she’d believed in Burke’s inevitable return, she would eat dinner, take coffee, sit by the fire in relative peace; in the days since the séance – since her return from where she had gone – she couldn’t even sleep. Hope had been a stone in many a man’s shoe, but – It was better than its absence, wasn’t it? Or was that pure selfishness talking? “Come away from there, Vicki,” he tried, “You’ll catch a cold in this wind. Julia will have my hide.” She made no response, and Roger stepped forward, taking the envelope together with her hand – small, cold to the touch, shaking. Vicki said something about the widows, but she let herself be pulled back into his arms, and led away: back away from the cliff’s edge, to a point where Roger could put his coat on her, not even hissing or wincing where the collar rubbed up against the scabby rope-burn.

Touch Prompts

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Exquisite 19th-century seashell herbarium from the sold archive of my antique shop, GHOST ERA ANTIQUES

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anyway, [peels a mandarin and gives u half]

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got to the recast for Vicki, and yet again, i am saying,

I finish AM's last episode as Victoria Winters, which means, despite the short-lived recasts, I anticipate that the next 600+ episodes of this show are simply going to leave me thinking:

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Dress Worn by Pattie Boyd for a photo shoot with Patrick Lichfield for British Vogue

Thea Porter

1970

Christie's: The Pattie Boyd Collection (Lot 39)

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629.

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hello i've been wanting a lou shirt for ages so I finally made a redbubble and I had to upload a few things to make it happen ... if sardine empire fashion and stickers appeal to you check it out.

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“what’s the song of the summer” ?? it’s DANCING IN THE DARK by bruce springsteen for the 40th year in a row

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Would you like to find out what you would be the god of? Take my new uqiz to find out

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There's a stairway to heaven and a highway to hell, but the midnight train goes anywhere. Trains are clearly the superior transit method.

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ab. 1865-1870 Antonie Sandberg (photo by Claus Peter Knudsen)

(Oslo Museum)

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Touch Prompts: r/v/b and 51. sitting on the other's lap? please and thank you!

TOUCH PROMPTS!

"Eyes on the road, eh, Collins?"

Roger flexed his grip, new Italian leather noisy against the warmth of the steering wheel, and eyed up the pair on the passenger side: Vicki's dark hair fighting to be free of that old scarf of hers, her husband's arms around her in lieu of safety restraint and his lap serving comfortably for a seat. Mrs. Devlin was much too modest to be terribly daring with the top down, but there was forgiveness to be had in the blur of a Stingray at top speed, glancing touches that no one would ever notice (except, of course, their responsible chauffeur), her laughter and other sounds lost in the growl of the engine, the battering of the wind.

"You and your wife are purposefully distracting me," Roger muttered, deciding at length that the curve up ahead was worthy of his attention, and thinking — though he knew better than to say so — that the old beach road was paved in that same red yarn of fate... but at least Burke's rusted '52 had the decency of bench seats.

Louder, less smooth, more liquor, then — he'd told him a hundred times to get that damned axle fixed — but the maddening grin on Burke's face was the same as it'd always been as he pulled Vicki tighter, and reminded Roger that he'd wanted to drive his car so badly, so he'd better enjoy it. Vicki was as suitably unhelpful as her husband: giggling, now, and Roger knew without looking that Burke had touched her where she was most ticklish – there, soft, under her left ribs – where her blouse had come untucked and hinted skin. Roger bit at the inside of his lip and clung to the wheel, knuckles white under driving gloves, eyes narrow beneath tinted shades. No disguise to fool Burke, of course, who laughed — and Roger clicked his tongue.

"You might have bought a car with room for three, Devlin."

"There's room." As demonstration, he went to his wife's neck who played, contentedly, with the thick locket-chain there — that old, dark Collins pendant. David’s hair. The Collins brides. Roger felt doeskin cling to the damp of his hands, his pulse jump. He laid on the gas, and the car leapt.

"Roger?" Vicki was watching him, now, still holding that necklace, eyes fixed to his hands, then to his face. The scarf had come loose (Burke must have been playing with it) and brown, brown hair swept across her forehead, into her eyes, stuck to her mouth. She wasn't giggling now. "Roger, do you want Burke to drive?"

He shook his head, made some flippant comment or another that her husband had too much on his mind. He'd feel better once they got past those trees, before Burke noticed where they were — past that stretch of boardwalk where Evans... but by then Burke had raised his head. Roger could see his elbows shift as he changed his grip on Vicki's waist, iron, from the corner of his eye; doubtless, too, that muscle twitched in his jaw where it always did.

"Slow down, Roger."

"Burke —"

"Do it."

Roger worked the gear shift, and did as he was told — for once quiet; Vicki, wordless, laid her head back against Burke's shoulder and closed her eyes, both of them, seemingly, in wait. But Burke said nothing further, though he didn’t loosen his grip; all was still as the miles passed, the weathered roadside cross fading in the rearview, the corvette sleek and black as an oil slick on the empty road. And then, when they were nearly to the crossing, Burke stirred. A kiss to Vicki’s forehead; adoring, to the back of her hand; to her bare shoulder that had gotten a little pink in the sun. Roger exhaled and — he noticed — so did Vicki.

Summer, he reminded himself. He could smell the flowers blooming, lilac perfume, Fifth Avenue cologne. Vicki had gotten tired of fussing with the scrap of nylon and tied it around Burke's neck instead, and her obliging husband undid a few buttons to show it off. After another mile or two Roger noticed a hand on his thigh: not Vicki's, Burke's. As if, somewhere on the stretch, he'd decided his lap was full; there wasn't room enough for ghosts.  

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life is short, though I keep this from my children

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Harbour of Trieste by Egon Schiele 1907 oil on cardboard

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that's cinema baby

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Ship in a Storm, by William Pierce Stubbs (1842-1909)