As we all need a little something right now, and by way of announcement that Vol. 3 of the Unselected Journals of Emma M. Lion is on its way, I decided to post the first entry, and give my wonderful readers a sneak peak. I hope you enjoy.

July 1, 1883

A noise woke me from my dreams this morning. I lay curled beneath my blanket in the dark, eyes closed, in a general—and what would prove temporary—sense of well-being. Upon hearing the noise a second time, I batted my eyes open and scrunched the blanket away from my face. Nightmare of all nightmares, there stood an apparition, peering over me in the near dark, a shiny nose beneath a bent set of spectacles. The nose I had seen before, the spectacles I had not.

Proud as I may not be to admit what happened next, I am committed to the truth.

I screamed.

And Cousin Archibald flew backward, flapping in his silk morning robe.

“Cousin Archibald!” I stated calmly (i.e., shouted), “What are you doing here?!”

He spent several minutes shushing me, holding his finger to his lips and blowing spittle from his mouth. “Shush! Shush! Quiet down!”

“I will not!” I answered, pulling my blanket to my chin for Decency’s Sake. “Why are you in my room!”

He is face was red, and he looked like he wanted to bash me on the head. “You’ll wake The Tenant!”

“He’ll survive,” I snapped. “Now, what in heaven’s name are you doing?”

Archibald straightened himself and wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his purple morning robe. “I wanted to let you know I intend to accompany you to church.”

“Church?” said I.

“Yes, church,” answered he.

“The religious meeting that begins at eleven o’clock?” pressed I.

“Yes,” confirmed he.

“The one where morality, honesty, and selflessness are discussed?”

“Yes. The very same.”

At which moment I refrained from scoffing. Only just.

“What time is it now, Cousin?”

“Half-past four,” stated he.

I collapsed back onto my bed and, as it was the Sabbath, uttered a prayer for the demon to leave me be. Upon reopening one eye, I saw my petition had gone up in vain. Cousin Archibald was still standing in my room.

“Why are you telling me you wish to attend church at half-past four in the morning?”

“We must arrive early,” came his reply.

“Why?” I demanded, resisting the urge to strangle the old man.

“It’s July the First!” he screamed with near desperation.

“Shh!” I whispered in return. “Yes, I was very much alive for the month of June, despite your best efforts. We can both agree it is July the first. Now, what is your point?”

“You are a heathen!” said he with venom.

Venom, say I.

And then it dawned. Not literally, no. It was still well before dawn, and I’ve not forgiven Archibald for it. Rather, my mind was illuminated.

“It is July the first.” I put my head in my hands. “No wonder you’re acting like a lunatic.”

“We have to be clever if we are to secure the prize!”

“We?” I looked up at this man who had taken my financial security and smothered it at the racetrack with silk morning coats. Who had done all he could to bring about my failure. Who will most likely be well satisfied to see me end in the gutter. Archibald Flat, this bitter, ridiculous, caricature of a human being. “We?” I repeated. “You think—after what you have done to me—that I will help you? It’s a miracle I haven’t thrown you out!”

In one unexpected sweep of emotion, Archibald embodied both pride and defeat. “I can’t do it on my own anymore,” he admitted, his voice shaking. “I’ve tried, and I can’t. Your father used to help me, but he is no longer. I miss it every year, my favourite thing.” And then he lifted a shaking hand to brush his wild hair away from his forehead and reveal The Scar, but I saw that it was to wipe his eyes with the palm of his hand. The man blinked several times, his eyes shimmering like glass.

He was trying not to cry.

!

The self-righteous indignation in my chest was pricked and then partially deflated. I am not beyond being moved by the pathetic, and Cousin Archibald is nothing if not that.

It was with a sigh that I asked, “Do you think the clue will be given at church?”

“Yes, yes!” His recovery was rather swift. Archibald shook his fists in the air, triumphant. “It always is, when the first is a Sunday!”

“Then we should arrive well before eleven o’clock.”

“Yes, yes!”

“Does Agnes know to prepare breakfast early?”

“I’ve already woken her.”

“Poor girl! When on earth do you wish to leave?”

“Six o’clock.”

I rubbed my eyes in an effort to refrain from strangling the man. “Cousin, I will be ready to leave for church at half past nine and not a minute before.”

“But—!”

“If you wish to go earlier and save a place, you are more than welcome to do so. I will arrive an hour and a half before the service, extreme by almost any measure. Now, away with you. Out of my room.”

Bunching his face into the semblance of a sad prune, Cousin Archibald fought only a moment before accepting his fate. “The young generation is a weak generation, and it will all go to the dogs when your kind take power.”

“My kind?”

But he had stomped out.

I lay in bed divided between the very human emotions of annoyance, curiosity and betrayal against myself for helping that man with anything.

When I finally did leave my bed, two sleepless hours later, I washed, dressed, and pinned my hair as best I could—Agnes deserving to not be bothered again.

The Tenant was awake and so I sent him a missive through the wall.

My apologies if you were disturbed in the ungodly hours of the morning.

Agnes brought me breakfast on a tray—fruit, toast, ham—and as I ate, a note was passed back through the wall.

I WAS AWAKE.

Does the man ever sleep?

I did not ask, as I do have some definition of propriety—a loose definition, granted.

As I ate my toast (and gazed at my Shakespeare-laden bookshelf), I could hear Mr. Pierce moving through his morning ablutions. Then the door of his closet opened, and Tybalt slipped past the small curtain that hangs over his personal door in the wall, crossing the room without so much as a greeting, and commandeering my unmade bed.

He is a very spoiled creature.

“Good morning, Tybalt.”

Tybalt’s ear moved in my direction at the mention of his name, but he was already halfway into a curl, and settled down with no other recognition of my person, his tail twitching.

It was then that Mr. Pierce put on his boots.

I know this because while the sound that travels between our shared wall is muffled—except, I imagine, for screaming lunatics in the wee hours of the morning—it is easier to hear his footsteps when he’s wearing his boots. They serve as a map of his movements.

I cannot say why I like the phenomena, but I do. Heavy footfalls, abrupt stops, all punctuating his mysterious life on the other side of the wall.

I digress.

Mr. Pierce walked over to his desk—boots!—and a moment later, another note was slipped through the wall.

ARE YOU WELL THIS MORNING, MISS LION?

I am, thank you.

Considering he’d never begun a conversation of any sort—in person or via wall communications—by asking ‘Are you well?’ I added,

Why do you ask?

I HEARD YOU CRY OUT AND WAS READY TO TAKE ACTION UNTIL I HEARD MR. FLAT SCREAM. AT WHICH POINT I FIGURED YOU HAD THE SITUATION IN HAND.

ALSO, YOU DID NOT ASK WHY I WAS AWAKE AT SAID UNGODLY HOUR. NOR DID YOU EXPLAIN THE CAUSE OF COMMOTION. IN OUR BRIEF, YET STORIED, ACQUAINTANCE, I WOULD HAZARD YOU TO ALREADY HAVE DONE BOTH.

ERGO, ARE YOU WELL THIS MORNING?

What a summation of my character! As for the incident in question, I had it quite in hand. As for asking after your personal sleeping habits, that could be construed as impertinent. And as impertinence comes in limited supply (one has only so much in any given day), it’s unwise to spend it all over breakfast.

I HAVE NO QUALMS USING MINE EARLY. WHY THE COMMOTION?

It’s July the first, in St. Crispian’s.

MEANING?

Meaning that in fifteen days there will be a production of Julius Caesar somewhere in the neighbourhood. No one excepting the committee—a shadow affair whose members remain a secret—knows who will play what parts or where it will take place. There are limited tickets, and one must follow the clues to secure them before they are gone. It is one of the grand traditions of our St. Crispian’s year.

As it is a Sunday, the first clue will be hidden in the sermon. Mr. Flat wants to make certain we arrive at church early.

AMATEURS FROM ST. CRISPIAN’S HAVE ONLY FIFTEEN DAYS TO PREPARE A PERFORMANCE OF JULIUS CEASAR, AND YOU ARE WAKING UP BEFORE DAWN IN HOPES OF WATCHING SUCH A DISASTER?

My cry of indignation was likely heard through the wall. It was then my passion for the project grew out of hand.

Mr. Pierce, have some reverence! Having performed this play for well over one hundred years, I assure you, we are up for the task. Amateurs? Not so! Our humble neighbourhood has killed Caesar more effectively than anyone else in the world.

Repeatedly.

To quote The Bard, “How many ages hence shall this our lofty scene be acted over, in states unborn and accents yet unknown!”

Also, this is my first July in St. Crispian’s since I was a very little girl. It is a banner moment in my life.

Amateurs indeed.

I ASK YOUR PARDON AND WISH YOU LUCK.

Thank you.

Also be warned: Our fellow St. Crispian’s may spontaneously quote Julius Caesar at you.

I AM WARNED.

Later

Young Hawkes, for all his going about and doing good, has a rather devious sense of humour. The church was full to bursting when he stood to deliver his sermon. Archibald sat beside me, perched on the edge of the pew like a hatchling about to fling itself out of the nest. I sighed, tried not to be embarrassed by my company, and focused on Hawkes. Hawkes stood for a full minute without speaking, a gleam of something untoward in his eye. Then he began the longest sermon he has ever given. We were herrings in a barrel with no hope of escape. It went on not for an hour, or even two, but three. He spoke—in detail—about each of the ten commandments and then spent a good deal of time in the New Testament. It appeared he was amusing himself greatly at our expense. The weak-stomached left shortly after midday. The weak-hearted not long after. But a great many of us stuck it through to the bitter end, and bitter it was, for there was nothing in the entire sermon that could be considered the first clue. Finally, as it was nearing two o’clock, he said in a rather uncommitted voice: “I am a surgeon to old souls: when they are in great danger, I recover them.”

I elbowed Cousin Archibald in the ribs.

“What!? What!?” he said.

“Shhh!” I lifted a finger to my mouth. “He just said, ‘I am a surgeon to old souls.’”

“The cobbler? The cobbler says that in act one.”

“Precisely.”

Archibald straightened in a superior manner. “The cobbler in the play says ‘shoes’ not ‘souls.’ I’ve the entire play memorized. That could not be our clue.”

It was a moment of unbearable stupidity.

“It’s not meant to be an exact quote, Cousin,” I hissed. “Young Hawkes was tailoring it to himself. It’s a play on words. Sole of the shoe. Soul of mankind. Do you see?”

He furrowed his brow and nodded. Then, without waiting for Young Hawkes to finish his sermon, Archibald stood, impolitely forced himself past the others sitting on our pew, and left the church.

I could have sworn Hawkes raised an eyebrow in my direction.

Coming soon! Emma M. Lion Vol. 3.

Cheers,

Beth