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weemsbotts · 1 year

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“Rather be Enslaved than Banished”: The Fight for Family in the 1820s

By: Lisa Timmerman, Executive Director

1n 1827, Daniel Hughes brought his petition to Virginia’s General Assembly. Presley Jewell of Stafford County enslaved Hughes for roughly forty years, emancipating Hughes upon Jewell’s death along with granting him land and stock. Although officials required free black persons to leave the state immediately, Hughes petitioned for several years to remain. The reason? His family enslaved in Prince William County. The request? Change the law.

Prior to 1782, slaveholders needed the state’s approval to emancipate their enslaved persons, and only granted to those who performed “meritorious services”, such as preventing an enslaved rebellion. This changed with “An act to authorize the manumission of slaves.”

“Be it therefore enacted, That it shall hereafter be lawful for any person, by his or her last will and testament, or by any other instrument in writing, under his or her hand and seal, attested and proved in the county court by two witnesses, or acknowledged by the party in the court of the county where he or she resides, to emacipate and set free, his or her slaves, or any of them, who shall thereupon be entirely and fully discharged from the performance of any contract entered into during servitude, and enjoy as full freedom as if they had been particularly named and freed by this act.”

The act specified that emancipated persons “…being above the age of forty-five years, or being males under the age of twenty-one, or females under the age of eighteen years…” had to be supported by their emancipators. However, there were penalties upon the free person if they neglected to pay taxes or traveled without supporting documentation. There was also the very real danger of enslavement by other white persons.

On 01/25/1806, the General Assembly amended this with “An Act to amend the several laws concerning slaves” declaring that an emancipated person had to leave the state within twelve months or risk being enslaved. The act outlined the process and penalties the slave owners would take for violating this stature. If the slave owner refused or never appeared, the person could be re-enslaved.

“And be it further enacted, That if any slave hereafter emancipated shall remain within this commonwealth more than twelve months after his or her right to freedom shall have accrued, he or she shall forfeit all such right, and may be apprehended and sold by the overseers of the poor of any county or corporation in which he or she shall be found, for the benefit of the poor of such county or corporation.”

The reasoning here was due to the potential consequences of enslaved persons associating with emancipated persons. Slave owners were always paranoid and showed their fear through acts and laws. Fearing the emancipated would encourage and support the enslaved person to possibly run away or incite an attack, the state decided it was necessary to remove any free person as soon as possible. For Hughes, this meant he needed to appeal directly to the General Assembly to either receive special permission or change the law. His numerous petitions show he tried both.

First petitioning in 02/1827, Hughes appealed to the House of Representatives and Senate. “The petition of Daniel Hughs, a free man of colour respectfully & humbly represents that he resides in the County of Stafford – that his master at his death several years ago, set him free and bequeathed to him a small farm where he has since resided – that he has a wife and two children – that he is near Sixty years of age and that he would as soon be again enslaved as to be banished the few remaining years of his life from his wife & children and place of nativity. He therefore prays your honorable body to permit him to remain in the State of Virginia the balance of his life, and trusts from his previous good character and the assurance of his future upright and orderly conduct that your honorable body will find no difficulty in extending towards him a favor seldom denied to worthy and meritorious slaves who have been emancipated by their masters…”

Thirty-two men testified to the above petition, signing their names in support of Hughes, “…as a worthy orderly and well behaved negro and have no limitation in stating that no few negro in the State of Virginia is more entitled to the privilege of remaining in this State than he is. He is near Sixty years of age, lives on the land given to him by Mr. Jewell his master and is very capable of maintaining himself.” Seymour Lyon, John Alexander, William P. Gaines, William Carter, Fielding Jewell, William Jewell, Joseph Stark, John Tausill, Thomas Nelson, and John Stone are just a few of the signatures on the petition.

George Carney, the man enslaving Hughes wife and children, also testified for Hughes, fully supporting his petition. “…and was called on by Presley Jewel his master to write his Will which I did he left him a lot of land of ten Acres and set him free observing to me he never had the weight of his hand on him in anger since he had Owned him Which was from a small boy and he did not with any man to do so after his death he is very industrious and provides well for his family and is of punctual to pay his debts as any man Whatever. therefore I pray your honorable body will consider his case and suffer him to remain the balance of his days in this commonwealth.” Carney’s support becomes clear if we consider his intentions. If forced to leave the state, the Hughes family might flee with or without active help from Hughes. By keeping Hughes nearby and supporting him, the family was seemingly less likely to run.

Despite the strong testimony and prayers, the petition was rejected.

Hughes tried again in 12/1828. “Your petitioner Daniel Hughs (a man of Colour) after serving as a slave upwards of Forty Years, was left Free some time ago by a certain Mr. Presley Jwel of Stafford County Va: Who also devised to me Ten acres of Land & some stock. I have near me a wife & Children the property of Mr Geo. Carney of P. Wm Cty. Your petitioner is informed that he cannot remain in this state Free without a special law passed by your honorable body which he prays to be passed –“

Again, several persons testified to the character of Hughes supporting his petition. Thomas Nelson, Jr. certified “that I have Known Danl Hughs for two years & believe the facts set out in his petition to be true & his general character is that of an honest, peaceable industrious inoffensive man.”

George Carney also testified again. “I certify that I have known Daniel Hughs for about 35 years and have even considered him a well behaved Servant during his masters time, and that he waited on his master during his last illness with great attention. (there being no white person about the house) and Since his master’s death his general conduct has been peaceable, industrious, inoffensive, and very punctual – his master gave me a good character of him, when writing his will.” Note how Carney emphasized that Hughes cared for Jewell when no white person was available. This subtle statement reinforced the racial codes, by suggesting Hughes care was only suitable when no white person could be found.

Besides for two men listed above, Fielding Jewell, Thomas Harman, Thomas Harding, John Alexander, Zachius Holliday, Richard Bridwell, Bryam Harding, and John Stone signed the petition in favor of Hughes. Despite their support, the Assembly denied the petition. Again.

Hughes tried a third time in 12/1829. This time, the petition starts off with the support of Stafford and Prince William County. “We the undersigned Citizens of Stafford and Prince William Counties being well acquainted with Daniel Hughes who was the slave of Presley Jewell & emancipated by him take pleasure in representing to your honourable body that the sd Daniel Hughes is a man of remarkably good character. That his conduct for many years past has been marked not only with usefulness to his master whom he has served to between 40 and 50 years of age with unusual fidelity in the different employments of labourer & confidential agent, but to our neighborhood We find we do not hesitate to say that independent of the claim which his general good character & conduct give him to residence in the state we should view his removal as a loss to our neighborhood & therefore recommend him as a fit person for exemption from the operations of the general law requiring his removal from the commonwelth. The undersigned tender you the [assurance] of their highest respects.” From Stafford: John Alexander, John Burroughs, Joseph Stark. From Prince William: Fielding Jewell, Thompson Lynn, John Stone, Thomas Nelson, Robert Alexander, James H. Reid, W.C. Murphy, John G. Rubleman, Richard P. Weedon, Sanford Cooper, Fledgman Murphey, Hiram D. Davis, William Cleary, William Cockrell, James B.C. Thurston, James Dowell. Unidentified: Silas Carney, probably Stafford.

Hughes appealed directly but more adamant. “He is informed that after the expiration of twelve months the law requires him to depart the state or forfeit the blessing which his kind master designed him to enjoy, and that from these evils of exile or slavery, equally detestable to him your honourable body alone can redeem, he therefore prays of your the passage of a law authorising him to reside within the commonwealth of Virginia. Your petitioner can urge no act of extraordinary merit for which he was emancipated, or would have found no difficulty in establishing such character as would have obtained of a county court the inestimable right for which he now prays, but must depend for favour upon the fact that he is a man whom the community in which he resides esteems for his character and desiring of retaining among them; satisfactory proofs of which your petitioner has herewith transmitted.”

The third petition was rejected. There is no easy answer for what happened to Hughes – at least no primary document easily accessible online! His choices were to either stay and face possible re-enslavement or leave the state. We know his age and no one identified a medical reason why he could not leave the state, such as troubles walking, injuries, etc. However, leaving the state meant leaving his home and family. Where would he go? What would he do? There are still more avenues to explore. Some possibilities: searching primary documents (court records, newspapers, wills, deeds) for George Carney especially looking into any property records available upon his death, searching for more info on the Jewell family, and searching for any court records pertaining to Daniel Hughes in Virginia. We hope to shed more light on the Hughes family living in Prince William and Stafford Counties as research facilities continue to index and upload their materials.

Note: Know a Brownie Girl Scout? We are offering the rare “Earn the Colonial Life Try-it” on Monday, 01/30 – a PWCPS work day! Join us for this great program featuring a tour of the house and related activities and crafts. Know someone that may want to participate but is not a Brownie? Contact us to discuss! Tickets and more info available here.

(Sources: Hughes, Daniel: Petition, 1827, 1828, 1829. LVA: Legislative Petitions Digital Collection: Virginia Untold: The African American Narrative; General Assembly. “An act to authorize the manumission of slaves (1782)" Encyclopedia Virginia. Virginia Humanities, (07 Dec. 2020). Web. 25 Jan. 2023; General Assembly. “An ACT to amend the several laws concerning slaves” (1806)” Encyclopedia Virginia. Virginia Humanities, (07 Dec. 2020). Web. 25 Jan. 2023)

#localhistory #regionalhistory #statehistory #virginia #general assembly #petition #enslaved #blackhistory #emancipation #primarysources #archives #familyhistory

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kemetic-dreams · 4 months

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Simbi water spirits are revered in Hoodoo originating from Central African spiritual practices. When Africans were enslaved in the United States, they blended African spiritual beliefs with Christian baptismal practices. Enslaved African Americans prayed to Simbi water spirits during their baptismal services. In 1998, in a historic house in Annapolis, Maryland called the Brice House archaeologists unearthed Hoodoo artifacts inside the house that linked to the Kongo people. These artifacts are the continued practice of the Kongo's minkisi and nkisi culture in the United States brought over by enslaved Africans. For example, archeologists found artifacts used by enslaved African Americans to control spirits by housing spirits inside caches or nkisi bundles. These spirits inside objects were placed in secret locations to protect an area or bring harm to slaveholders. "In their physical manifestations, minkisi (nkisi) are sacred objects that embody spiritual beings and generally take the form of a container such as a gourd, pot, bag, or snail shell. Medicines that provide the minkisi with power, such as chalk, nuts, plants, soil, stones, and charcoal, are placed in the container." Nkisi bundles were found in other plantations in Virginia and Maryland. For example, nkisi bundles were found for the purpose of healing or misfortune. Archeologists found objects believed by the enslaved African American population in Virginia and Maryland to have spiritual power, such as coins, crystals, roots, fingernail clippings, crab claws, beads, iron, bones, and other items assembled together inside a bundle to conjure a specific result for either protection or healing. These items were hidden inside slaves' dwellings. These practices were concealed from slaveholders.

In Darrow, Louisiana at the Ashland-Belle Helene Plantation historians and archeologists unearthed Kongo and Central African practices inside slave cabins. Enslaved Africans in Louisiana conjured the spirits of Kongo ancestors and water spirits by using seashells. Other charms were found in several slave cabins, such as silver coins, beads, polished stones, bones, and were made into necklaces or worn in their pockets for protection. These artifacts provided examples of African rituals at Ashland Plantation. Slaveholders tried to stop African practices among their slaves, but enslaved African Americans disguised their rituals by using American materials and applying an African interpretation to them and hiding the charms in their pockets and making them into necklaces concealing these practices from their slaveholders. In Talbot County, Maryland at the Wye House plantation where Frederick Douglass was enslaved in his youth, Kongo related artifacts were found. Enslaved African Americans created items to ward off evil spirits by creating a Hoodoo bundle near the entrances to chimneys which was believed to be where spirits enter. The Hoodoo bundle contained pieces of iron and a horse shoe. Enslaved African Americans put eyelets on shoes and boots to trap spirits. Archaeologists also found small carved wooden faces. The wooden carvings had two faces carved into them on both sides which were interpreted to mean an African American conjurer who was a two-headed doctor. Two-headed doctors in Hoodoo means a conjurer who can see into the future and has knowledge about spirits and things unknown.

At Levi Jordan Plantation in Brazoria, Texas near the Gulf Coast, researchers suggests the plantation owner Levi Jordan may have transported captive Africans from Cuba back to his plantation in Texas. These captive Africans practiced a Bantu-Kongo religion in Cuba, and researchers excavated Kongo related artifacts at the site. For example, archeologists found in one of the cabins called the "curer's cabin" remains of an nkisi nkondi with iron wedges driven into the figure to activate its spirit. Researchers found a Kongo bilongo which enslaved African Americans created using materials from white porcelain creating a doll figure. In the western section of the cabin they found iron kettles and iron chain fragments. Researchers suggests the western section of the cabin was an altar to the Kongo spirit Zarabanda

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blueywrites · 1 year

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turtle dove and the crow, part four

A 1940s Farm AU, featuring bsf!neighbor!eddie x fem!reader

story tags: 18+ (minors dni). smut; true love; unexpected pregnancy; angst, angst, angst; parental issues; corporal punishment; scheming, plotting, and betrayal; hurt/comfort; period-typical stigma regarding unwed pregnancy; angst with a happy ending.

chapter tags: please heed this warning and decide if you are prepared to read this chapter, which includes scenes of harsh but period-accurate parental abuse against an 18-year old child. this includes emotional and mental abuse in the form of 'discipline' and depictions of physical punishment. these methods are always harmful and never appropriate. they do not represent the views of the author. avoiding tw/cw's? read the part four summary instead

PART FOUR: THE WEIGHT BENEATH THE SUN (8.6K)

It’s hard to make the moment last

Hard to keep the dreams you have

Hard to let the love inside your heart

The guards are always at the gates

Turning everyone away

But you got through

Didn’t you?

You’re the One I Want — Chris and Thomas

When you were six— two years before Edward Munson became the new boy next door— your mother still hosted garden parties during the warm months. Pa would arrange the iron furniture into a pleasing configuration, ensuring the grass was level and dry beneath the table's heavy feet. The stiff-backed chairs would be spaced precisely from its wrought edges, far enough for ease of entry but close enough that the ladies would not have to stretch their arms too far to reach the cucumber sandwiches. Those Mama would assemble in careful layers, laying them out on a ceramic platter decorated with filigree. Mama's finest pitcher, made of delicate glass and attractive curves, would be used to serve fresh-squeezed lemonade. She'd garnish the sweet drink with muddled mint leaves plucked from the small personal garden she carefully maintains against the backyard fence. A generous spray of flowers would finish the trio of treasures awaiting the town's ladies, invited by your mother for an afternoon of light refreshments and genteel socializing.

Your sister, Virginia, has the supreme honor of being allowed to join the garden party for the first time this year. She is five years your senior in age and ten your superior in manner, evident in the graceful way she smooths the skirt of her shiny pink dress, perching herself with impeccable posture on the very edge of the iron chair situated to your mother’s right side. Poised and prim, Virginia accepts a glass of lemonade, taking a tiny sip before placing the china delicately to the right of her plate. Ever observant, her eyes dart around the table, absorbing gestures with ease; she follows her sip quickly with a dab of her napkin before arranging it dutifully on her lap again. She is rewarded for this, as the ladies generously indulge her presence among them.

You would be jealous of your sister's invitation if you gave a hoot about such things, but you are entirely disinterested in all of it. You care not for hushed titters floating from beneath their sunbonnets and the passing of cucumber sandwiches, which are nibbled little by little and then chewed behind demure palms as gossip is exchanged. Instead, you've happily plopped yourself behind the apple tree, back to rough bark and short legs spread wide in the ticklish grass.

Methodically, one by one, you have been picking the delicate yellow petals off the heads of dandelion weeds, dropping each one to collect in the basin of the sunbonnet cradled between your thighs. It's painstaking work and nonsensical, perhaps, but it serves to satisfy some innate curiosity inside you. The purpose of this is unclear; your actions are confusing, the way children's play is often confusing to everyone but the child. But since you are quietly occupying yourself, and your mother and sister are busy socializing, they are happy to leave you to your own devices.

They are happy, that is, until your eye is caught by something much more exciting than plucking weeds.

Your neighbor down the lane has just finished imparting some succulent gossip to the gathering, and her lips are pursed against a grin as she relishes the reaction to her news. Her revelation has the intended effect: shock ripples around the table, but it is mixed with the suppressed delight of knowing a new, tantalizing secret. The party-goers exchange glances, searching for cues in one another, all wanting to know more but reluctant to appear too eager.

"Oh, my goodness." Mama places her hand over her heart as if in regret, but her eyes are gleaming. Interest thrums within the hush of her voice as she begins to ask, "And what d'you suppose he might now do, on account of—?"

"Mama!"

Her question is interrupted by your delighted cry. She turns to see you holding aloft that which made you abandon your collection. Back by the tree, those petals have spilled from the tipped sunbonnet to scatter heedlessly across the grass. "Look't what I caught!" you squeak, eyes alight with eager, innocent delight. "It's a big one, too!"

Despite your excitement, you cradle the large bullfrog gently in your hands, mindful of its comfort as you present it to your mother. You considered it quite the feat to catch the frog without causing it alarm, and when its strong legs twitch against your palm without attempting to flee, pride glows beneath the dirt streaks on your round cheeks.

Your mother does not share your sentiment.

The way her expression contorts is so opposite what you expected that she may as well have smacked you across the face. Your earlier excitement is smothered like water douses a match, and promptly, you drop the frog.

You drop it as if by acting quickly, you can undo whatever has caused your Mama offense. But it is not enough. Your mother stares at you, and though the look in her eyes is one you are too young to fully decipher, a parent's disapproval is sensed innately, and felt deeply.

One year after you drop the bullfrog, Mama will sell the garden furniture to purchase seeds and stock in preparation for the coming hardship, and the garden parties would end. Two years after you drop the bullfrog, Eddie will roll in like a summer storm to join his uncle in the red house next door. Seven years after you drop the bullfrog, Virginia will establish a nest of her own, leaving you as the only unwed daughter left in your parents' roost. But no matter how many years pass, you will never forget how your mother's stare made you feel. In the garden, a heavy stone sank in your gut, sickeningly leaden, steadily crushing your delicate insides with each second you spent pinned by her furious stare.

This moment in the hayloft reminds you of that. But there is no stone of lead in your stomach this time. This time, with the salt tang of Eddie's seed still lingering on your lips, your entire body turns to solid, petrified rock.

Your mother stares up at you from the barn floor. Her face is contorted, screwed up tight with shock and rage, but her eyes are wide, wide enough to swallow you up entirely like a sinkhole would. She traps you. And you remain there, locked tight until the seethe of her voice boils hot from between her lips, blistering the ruddy flesh on its path to you.

"Git. Down. Here."

Each word is a spitfire bullet, enunciated so precisely so as not to be misconstrued. The burn rushes down your spine to melt your solid rock into magma.

Your muscles are clenched tight, but the warm pulse once stoked between your legs has deadened. You're thrumming instead with horror, with deep, all-consuming dread. Where one moment ago you were heavy as a sinking stone, now you are unsteady, shaky like the first time Eddie coaxed you into a rowboat.

You can't grab hold of his rough, broad palm to settle yourself this time, and you don't dare risk a glance at the man still nestled in that soft bed of hay. To catch his eye would be torture of a different kind. Instead, you rush to obey your mother's command. Your knee scrapes raw against old, splintery wood as you scramble around and dip one foot to catch the rung of the ladder.

It's a sturdy old thing, that ladder. Good thing, too, because it holds fast as you cling to it with shuddering fingers and legs so wobbly, they clatter against its rungs with each step toward the perilous ground. By the time you reach the floor, the knee you'd scraped has gone numb. You want to turn your chin down and see if your dress has bloomed a crimson flower of blood, but your neck is unyielding. It's hard enough to step back from the security the ladder provides. All the will your spirit possesses must be channeled into facing the woman looming like a cloud of miasma behind you.

There is no time to brace for a confrontation, but you force your face into as docile an expression as possible before you meet your Mama head-on. She is short and portly, hunched up in such a way as to make her smaller in theory, though, in reality, the sight is only more imposing to you. You expect to meet her piercing stare again, but she isn't looking at you. Instead, she's got one eye hooked on the edge of the hayloft and her lip caught in a sneer so deep it's almost a snarl.

"You too, Edward," she spits, and your throat dries to dust. "Don't think I'm ignorant of your bein' up there with'r."

The silence that follows is stifling, crowding in on you from all sides. The pressure doesn't ease even as that pregnant pause turns to the creaking and groaning of wood, which protests as the weight of an unseen body shifts toward the hayloft's edge. The thud of booted feet that replaces the wood's cry is little consolation; your heart kicks up at the steady plod that commences, matching it in rhythm but pounding twice as fast. You don't dare to turn and look or even to fiddle with your skirt nervously. Your hands remain still at your sides as your mother stares above your head, watching Eddie climb down from the hayloft. Her eyes dip slowly and steadily along with the thumping of those booted feet until her gaze is even with your face. The final step down behind you is quieter than the rest, and your throat tightens as you sense Eddie's hesitance in the sound.

As he alights on the ground, Mama's eyes suddenly shift. Where once she had been staring almost uncannily in your direction, as if she may or may not have been trying to look you in the eye, a sudden cut and glint make it abundantly clear that now— now— your mother is gazing directly at you.

It's all you can do to keep from trembling.

You vaguely hear the shuffle-scrape of Eddie's footsteps and feel the warmth of his body as he comes to stand beside you. The tiniest glance reveals the extent of his mortification: his pale cheeks are beet red with a flush that creeps down his throbbing neck, and his eyes are squinched half-shut as if bracing for a blow. His adam's apple bobs, and unconsciously, you swallow at the same time.

When Eddie finally opens his mouth, all that eeks out is the briefest croak before your mother interrupts coldly. "You best be gettin' home to your uncle now, Edward."

While the words don't drip with venom, the mention of Wayne is nothing if not a threat, and Eddie recognizes it as so. You would never expect him to argue; in fact, you'd be dismayed if he had, but the thought of facing your mother's wrath alone covers the frozen dread inside you with a fine layer of poignant sorrow. You are heavy, but now you are empty, too.

Weakly, Eddie clears his throat to rasp, "Yes, ma'am." Your chin trembles at the sound of his voice, but your eyes only begin to sting when you feel the soft, subtle draw of his fingers across the small of your back as he passes by you to disappear out of sight beyond the barn doors. The touch is one last offering of comfort from your beloved before you both must face the consequence of your transgressions.

In the kitchen, Mama takes you apart.

The way she lashes you with her tongue is harsh and unforgiving. Each word darts across the kitchen counter, catches you with its claws, and burrows beneath your tender skin, sinking deep to carve into your marrow.

"How dare you." Her voice quivers with the force of her rage. "How dare you bring such disgrace upon our family. You know darn well that we forbade you from seeing that boy, yet you went behind our backs anyway. And now, to make matters worse, I find you been carryin' on like a," her lips twist up to spit a sharper barb, "hussy up in the hayloft. What kind of a girl do you think that makes you, y/n?"

She pauses long enough to make you question whether she expects an answer, but she carries on without you. Her eyes dart along the cabinets, unseeing as she chuckles mirthlessly. "And, oh. M'blood could just boil thinkin' how that boy could set there at his dinner table and talk about how good we raised our daughter, only for you two t'turn around and… and…."

She stutters off, wild eyes rolling as she works herself up. The deepening of her wince uglies her visage, so that lines crease at the corners of her mouth where before there were none. And oh, how foolish you were to think the sight of her bulging eyes would be in any way gratifying. How deeply, utterly stupid of you to think such a thing.

"What you done is unspeakable. How'm I supposed to show my face in town, knowing what you been up to right underneath my nose? It turns my stomach just to think about what y'were doin' up there w'him."

Each word sinks deep inside you. It’s a barrage of all you deserve because it's the truth. And this is just the beginning. Because there's disgust there, in Mama's screwed-up face, and there's fury, too. But beneath those, there's also hurt— the evidence of a deep wound torn open by your impropriety. It's a hurt you aren't sure you can mend.

At that realization, fat, hot tears begin to roll unimpeded down your cheeks. They drip from your quivering chin, which tightens with the occasional sniffle as you try to keep yourself from collapsing to the floor, wrapping your arms around your mother’s skirt, and pressing yourself to her shins in pitiful supplication.

Though Mama is looking at you, she doesn't seem to register that you've started to cry. "I just can't understand it." Mama's fingers press divots into her temples, and her head wags absently as if in subconscious denial. "Virginia was your age when she married her Lawrence. She knew the way of things. And now look at 'er— got her own home and three children to raise." Her hands drop sharply, and a flash of judgment returns. "She's a proper lady. And then what d'we have? You. I never thought I'd see the day when a daughter of mine would behave like this."

The burrs stick sharply, coating you in a prickly sadness that only intensifies when your Mama's plump arms tighten to her sides, crossing beneath her bosom, cinching in tight as she presses a fist to her lips.

"Lord help me— what'm I gonna do with you now?"

It's so much quieter than all else she's said, so much duller, and yet all the more painful for it.

Her name on your lips is a whimper, a sob, a plea all at once. "Mama—" You suddenly feel no more than six years old with dirt streaked on your shameful cheeks, filled with the crushing sense of all you've done wrong.

"Don't." She cuts you off firmly. Your teeth click together painfully as your jaw snaps closed. She stares at you for a long moment. "Th'last thing I wanna do is talk about what was goin' on up there, but clearly…"

You read the intention in your mother's restless shifting, the discomfited rocking of her heels. Heat floods up your throat, a sickly blaze of shame. "Well," she continues stiffly, "I know y'had your mouth on him, and that's… that's one thing. But I need to know." Her fist drops to reveal a stiff upper lip, but her voice quavers slightly as she asks a question that doesn't stick like burrs or burrow beneath your skin. Instead, it pierces straight through the center of you.

"Have you had relations with Edward?"

Your shock is like the firm twist of a leaky spigot. The steady flow of your tears ceases so abruptly that it's nearly enough to distract from the question itself.

Nearly enough. Not quite enough.

Horrified panic surges up as the question sinks in: Mama's askin' me if I had sex with Eddie. The feeling claws its way past your stomach, past your heart, past the heat in your throat, and straight up to your head. It rushes there, leaving you dizzy. Black fuzz spreads across your vision.

And the lie springs up, ready and poised behind your teeth. It's a denial borne of fear, desperation, and the deep ache beating in the child's heart still nestled within your grown one. That tiny heart flutters against your ribs, recalling the plink of music box drift-offs and gentle John the Rabbit wake-ups; the balm of kisses pressed to scraped knees and hurt feelings wrung out with tight hugs; the roundness of laughing cheeks streaked with flour and little hands cradled in large palms, guided to knead love into dough, right here, in this room, all those years ago.

Could you survive the loss that would come with confession? Could you bear to see the lingering light— the final vestige of a mother's regard for her child— die behind her eyes?

Led by a child's heart and a mind seized by panic, the choice you make is not a choice, but an inevitability.

"No," you whimper, and such sincerity pools within your eyes that even one who knows better might be convinced you believe that. "No, I din't lay with him, Mama. I swear it."

The softening of her features, fractional though it is, brings you such tender relief that tears spring anew at the corners of your lashes.

"Well, all right," she says finally, and while her voice isn't quite fond, you can see the creases around her mouth ease, fading from deep crevices back to the faint lines you're familiar with. It's a gift you wouldn't dare waste. "Y'know what needs to be done, then."

Without a hint of protest, you retrieve the wooden spoon from the crock on the counter, passing it into your mother's waiting hand and presenting your backside to her.

With balled fists and a rigid spine, you take your punishment. You press your lips flat to keep all your noises in as Mama spanks you with the rounded back of the wooden spoon. The even raps— ten against your clothed buttocks— smart and sting, but they do not ache. Her actions are not hesitant or reluctant, but they aren’t gluttonous either. Your mother does not grow fat feasting on your pain; she is merely obliged to provide it.

You are braced for another impact when you hear the spoon clatter back into the crock. When you realize another blow will not come, you face her again. Silence reigns the room as you take stock of yourself: warm, stinging skin, pressure in your cheeks, nose, and forehead from crying, and a new, yawning hollowness inside.

"M'sorry, Mama," you sniffle, throat thick with remorse, "M'sorry for disobeying you, a-and bringin' shame on the family. I— I jus'..." You choke and try again. "I—"

There is only one justification, however inadequate it might seem to your mother. It's spoken in the misery of your crumpled brow, in the glaze of your big wet eyes, in the copper of your lower lip where you've worried the spot Eddie's kisses still sweetly linger.

I love him.

"I know." Mama replies as if you'd said it aloud, and her voice is tight, tight with what she is trying to suppress. "I know you do." Her bosom heaves with a heavy, bracing sigh. "But y'know what your Pa said." She doesn’t seem to feel the need to be more specific, and you muster a smidgeon of gratitude for that.

"I know," you echo her, and your voice is tiny and broken. You are tiny and broken. And tired. You realize all at once that you are so tired, it's a labor just to keep from lying down right here on the floor. "R'you gonna tell 'im what I did?"

A jerky nod confirms it, and you think you'd feel more afraid if you could feel anything at all. "I'll speak with your Pa when he gets home," Mama tells you. "Now go'n up to your room. Don't expect you'll get any supper tonight."

You stare at her, solemn and unresisting, and in that stillness, you can see the moment she hesitates. The flicker that passes across her crinkled eyes is brief, but you see it, and the hush of her voice tells a story all its own. "Don't come down for nothin'," she murmurs intently. "No matter what y'hear. Just stay in your room 'til the morning. Hear me?"

You can feel yourself wilt further into exhaustion with each passing moment. "Yes, Mama," you croak in dutiful agreement.

The press of her cool palm against your warm, sticky cheek is brief. It lingers only long enough for you to barely realize it has been offered. But that fleeting sensation keeps you alert enough to drag yourself up to your bedroom, softly shut the door, strip off your dress and chemise, and pull on your thin nightgown before relinquishing yourself to the sunken mattress. At that point, you cease to tick, like the final tines have plinked within a wound music box. You have landed on your back atop the covers, and there you will stay until you can summon the strength to turn onto your side.

Though you are tired, sleep does not come to offer a reprieve. Instead, though your eyes begin to strain, you stare at the crack in the plaster above your head. It's the same one you traced while waiting for your crow to land on your windowsill yesterday, yesterday, yesterday. Yesterday beats in the useless yearning of your heart, trailing down your temples to pool in the hollows of your ears.

Yesterday, Eddie held you in your bed until you fell asleep. Today, he never would again.

Heavy footsteps rouse you, and you jolt awake.

At some point in the afternoon, outside your conscious memory, the slow leaking of your eyes had finally ceased. Blearily, you curled into yourself, tucking your wrists beneath your chin and finally drifting off into unconsciousness. Now, your bedroom is not the way you remember it. It's dizzying at first when your eyes pop open not to the crack in white plaster you'd expected but instead to the sight of your bedroom window. The outside is dark beyond the gauze curtains. The air now hums with the dusk song of cicadas.

You have little time to orient yourself before the heavy footsteps that woke you yield to the squeal of a door hinge. Your neck is stiff when you lift your head, attempting to blink the strain from your eyes.

Cast in dimness, Pa looms over you like the shadow of death.

Your father is typically imposing, but his visage is made even more severe by the lack of light. His long face appears to be carved with crags, which harshen the snarl of his brow and turn the wrinkles of his sneer into jagged gashes lining his thin lips. What little light remains glints off the bony line of his nose and the flash of his hard, unyielding eyes. He stands unmoving as if etched from obsidian; the only feature to betray him as man and not stone is the ticking of his square jaw. A muscle there jumps erratically, twitching out its silent fury.

Eyes wide, heart fluttering, breath quick and shallow, you lay still as a prey animal hoping to escape a predator's sight. That is no use. Quick as a rattler, Pa's hand strikes out, and the yawning hollowness inside you becomes an uproar of fear flooding your throat.

He takes firm hold of your arm, thick fingers like a vice pinching your skin. When he tugs at you roughly, you let him maneuver you to the edge of the bed. You keep yourself limp and unresisting because, now that you've been caught in his jaws, you know he'll only bite down harder if you don't. And you even shimmy to assist him, fingers twisted tight in the hem of your nightgown to keep it from dragging up your legs. Preoccupied with maintaining your modesty, you're unprepared to be dragged beyond the footboard; you lurch off the bed in an ungainly slump, and your knees clunk painfully to the hardwood floor.

A shock of pain shoots up both of your legs, and you muffle your reaction with lips pressed tight, following the silent command of your father's grip as he insists you turn to face the mattress. He drops you only once you're kneeling how he wants you, and the loss of his clamped fingers is a relief. Feeling begins to return to your arm as blood flows freely again, and a dull throb starts up in the place he'd gripped you.

Yet that's nothing compared to what you know is coming when you hear the metallic clink of a buckle. It's followed by the unthreading of his belt, which shicks through the loops of his blue jeans with a drag of denim and a snap of leather breaking free.

Moments pass in agonizing silence as you wait for the first crack of the belt. Everything inside you tightens in preparation for the pain to come— your muscles, your bones, your heart, and your spirit. You brace yourself, thighs quivering as you hold so perfectly still despite how your skin has begun to dew with nervous sweat. As you hold that stillness, you can even detect the sting of your mother's milder punishment throbbing in time with the pulse that thrums within your tense body.

Your head has just begun to sag when Pa's voice grates loudly like the grinding of stone, gruff and hoarse. "Y'pologized to your Mama for your behavior?"

You rush to answer. "Yes, sir."

"Y'ever gonna dare sneakin' around under my roof again?"

"No, sir."

A grunt follows your reply. It sounds satisfied enough to untwist a little of the fear inside you. "Y'ashamed of yourself for what you done with that piece of trash? You regret lettin' him," he pauses so the spit of his words might sting you worse, "ruin you with his filthy hands?"

Unbidden, Eddie's face blooms in your mind's eye: wild curls of soft dark frizz, crinkled eyes lightened to amber in the sunshine, soft nose dusted with cinnamon freckles, pink lips stretched wide in a smile that makes your heart squeeze even in your memory. You see him there, your beloved crow, and your chin trembles with the truth. You manage to steady it so that your second lie of the day can come out strong. "Yes, sir."

But perhaps, in your remembering, you hesitate a second too long, because your answer is quickly followed by fire cracking across the crease of your thigh and cheek.

You yelp with shock and pain, reeling as the contact burns through you, beginning as a white-hot ache before dulling to a throb. You tremble, breathing shakily as your father mutters, "I'll make damn sure of that."

Pa belts you across your buttocks and thighs, attempting to scald that shame into you with the cruelty he wields by his hand. But the whip of the belt is not the same as the lashing of your mother's words in the kitchen; it could never be. Not when Eddie's face has bloomed before you, bathed in summer sunshine. Not in this place, where the bunching of your fingers in the bedspread only makes you think about strong arms around your middle, soft breath on your cheek, and the tickle of wild curls against your shoulder.

Your father feasts on the cries he draws from you. He takes them as evidence of your guilt and shame. But you're fortified by the memory of Eddie's strong body cradling you in this bed, the breadth of his wide palm on your mound as he brings you to the pinnacle of pleasure, holding you snugly against him when you fall into surrender.

Harshness could never drive out reverence. Pain could never drive out love.

Pa might leave you welted and whimpering against the footboard, but he can never make you waver in your devotion to Edward Munson.

That's not, of course, due to a lack of trying. Because try he does. Pa efforts to cleave you from Eddie in any way he knows how. He begins with a belting and continues the next morning with a visit to your neighbor, Mr. Wayne.

He's over there 'til midday, which you know because you do not rouse from your bed until he returns. You'd lain there on your side for the entirety of the morning, wrists again tucked beneath your chin, but legs straight since curling them made the throbbing in your bottom and thighs sharpen to a burning ache. Throughout the morning, you stared out the window, watching the light crawl steadily up the red siding of the house next door.

You stirred only when Mama came to tend you. She didn't speak, but you could sense her sentiment in the mild soap and damp cloth she used to wash you, in the gentle pat of a soft towel against your cleansed skin, in the earthy spice of the calendula salve she dabbed on your welts. After she was done, your nightgown fluttered back into place around your hip and flank with the lightest touch. You nibbled on the toast sweetened with butter and honey she left for you on the bedside table, but you did not quit your bed.

This was not the first time Pa had taken the belt to you for some indiscretion, but it was by far the harshest. That's evident as the painful throbbing in your lower half intensifies when you prop yourself up on a palm, testing how it feels to sit up. Your father finds you in the midst of this endeavor: leaning gingerly on one flank, your lips pressed tight and pale.

You glance toward him warily as he bullies open your bedroom door, and he squints back but doesn't acknowledge your pained expression. "Get y'rself presentable," he grunts. "You're comin' with me next door."

Humiliation, it seems, is the next tool Pa has decided to use to cleave you from Eddie. You know it isn't unreasonable to ask you to apologize to Mr. Wayne for your inappropriate behavior. In fact, now that you've had time to reflect on your actions, you even want to apologize to your neighbor. You cannot— will not— denounce your devotion to Eddie, but you do regret disrespecting Mr. Wayne. He's a man who has been nothing but kind and patient with you and his nephew throughout all the years you've known him, and to think you'd wounded him with your actions makes your throat thicken with genuine regret.

So you dress hastily in your loosest, lightest frock and spend the majority of the time Pa affords you sitting at your writing desk, crafting a missive of carefully-chosen words you hope will convey to Wayne the depth of your sincere contrition. It takes some scratch-outs and restarts, but by the time Pa returns to retrieve you, you feel satisfied with what you've written.

You expect to apologize to Mr. Wayne for the offence you have caused him, and you expect to make the apology in person, so you don’t hesitate as you follow your father into the red house. It is also unsurprising that Pa would watch you deliver that apology. Knowing his nature, it's expected that he'd want to ensure your efforts are satisfactory. But you do not anticipate the way Pa ushers you through your neighbors' house, one palm pressed flat to your back to keep you from retreating when you see Eddie sitting next to Wayne at the dining room table.

Eddie doesn't look any worse for wear, not in the way you feel after enduring Pa's punishment last night, but he isn't unaffected by yesterday's events. He's wilted like a shade plant left too long in the hot sun: limp curls clumped at the ends, broad shoulders slumped, pink lips sagging at the corners. His umber eyes are smudged with purple in the hollows of their sockets as he stares down at the table. He doesn't look up as Pa urges you forward.

Your heart seizes at the sight of him, stalling as familiar, hungry want mixes with poignant, thrumming sadness. The impulse to rush to the table and throw your arms around him, to bury your fingers in his curls and cradle his face to your breast, to feel his hot arms crush you against him— all comfort, all sweetness, all desperate relief— is nearly overwhelming.

To resist is worse agony than any strike of leather, but resist you must. Pa's firm hand on your back demands you stand behind the chair across from Mr. Wayne; all the while as he maneuvers you, you will your crow to look up. He doesn't, though you can tell he now knows you're here. You see it in the tightening of his brow and the twist of his plush lips, which pinch with the effort to keep himself at bay.

Pa scrapes a chair out, settling himself heavily down into its seat. Standing beside him, you fidget with the crisply-folded letter, pinched fingertips crawling slowly along its edges as you pour all your will and longing into a stare that Eddie refuses to return.

The stalemate ends as Pa clears his throat loudly, growing impatient. "Go'n, now," he prompts, crossing his arms and kicking his feet out under the table in a scuff and thump of heavy boots.

You steal one more lingering glance at Eddie before dropping your eyes to your hands and unfolding your letter. It is silent at the table as you turn it right-side up to read from. You lick your lips and take a breath to steady your nerves before beginning.

"Dear Mr. Wayne," you begin, reading in a cadence reminiscent of your schoolteachers' voices— melodic, perhaps too overly-expressive. "I want to tell you that I am so very sorry—"

A lump rises suddenly in your throat, and you falter; you begin again, speaking a little faster, though you can't disguise the tiny tremble that has emerged. "I am so very sorry for what I've done to disrespect you. I have been carrying on in a shameful manner…."

The apology becomes a blur as you race to complete it before losing your composure. As you express your remorse and acknowledge your wrongdoing, the shaking of your voice only worsens; by the end, your chin is wobbling hard enough that your teeth start chattering.

"Tha's all right, dear," Wayne interjects, gruff but not unkind. Never unkind. "I kin what you're tryin' to express. 'ppreciate your apology."

You nod jerkily, accepting the reprieve gratefully. You fold your letter back up with trembling fingers and pass it over the table to your neighbor, who tucks it away in his pocket.

With a jut of his chin, Pa motions to Eddie. "S'your turn now, boy," he says, and there's enough vitriol roiling there beneath the surface to more than compensate for Wayne's lack. Pa's shrewd eyes dart to you. "Sit down now."

You don't dare disobey, though your stiffness and pinched expression bely your discomfort as you perch gingerly on the edge of the chair. Eddie rises sharply, and your gaze catches on the clench of his broad fist at his side, how his ruddy knuckles have blanched with the force of his grip. You know they'd tightened at the sight of your pain, and a sudden surge of longing nearly leaves you breathless.

You'd urged Eddie to look up at you when he'd been seated, but now you know why he didn't because neither can you, now that the positions are reversed. You can't look up at his face and see the expression there. It's hard enough to hear his voice as he apologizes to your father for touching you without his permission, for the deep offense of wanting you when he'd expressly been told he wasn't allowed because he was too wild and frivolous, and that he'd proven himself as such for what he'd done with you in the hayloft.

At the end of Eddie's apology, Pa grunts his acceptance. Then, he informs you in no uncertain terms what now will happen. It is the result of his lengthy discussion with Wayne this morning; in the end, they both agreed on certain truths moving forward, and they share those with you now.

They tell you that you and Eddie have been stripped of your freedoms and grounded for further notice. That you aren't to attempt to see or speak with one another. That you should begin thinking about your separate futures and leave this silly summer romance behind. That you are both lucky they are benevolent enough to allow you to continue living side-by-side without sending one or both of you away.

You are bidden to acknowledge the rules, and you intone your obedience, as does Eddie. And when Pa is satisfied that you have been sufficiently cleaved from the boy across the table, you are herded back around the tall fence and deposited onto your property.

Having seen the defeat written across your miserable face, Pa leaves you to your own devices. You choose to sit beneath the apple tree, hissing at the lance of pain that races up your buttocks and into your spine as you thump down into the grass. Stubbornly, you ignore the low throbbing in favor of deciphering the storm inside you.

Under the apple tree, a billow of emotion spreads within, complex and layered, filled with contradictions. Because what you've done is indeed wrong, and you know that. But to take the depth of your relationship with Eddie and reduce it to an indiscreet romp, a careless mistake, an insignificant dalliance chalked up to the folly of youthful impulse…

Well, you know this also. Down to your core, you know that that isn't right. And no one rivals you in conviction once your mind is set.

Twelve days ago, the intimacy you shared with your crow came to fruition in a wondrous way. As you pass your days in solitude within your roost, that wonder begins to transform you. It starts with a letter.

Though the tall fence running the length of your adjoining properties keeps you apart from Eddie, and your parents' watchful eyes prevent any wandering from your front porch, one minor breach remains in those steadfast defenses. It's the tree stump rotted straight through, the only place where the grass of your backyards mingles to become one. Secrets are concealed there, announced by the innocuous song of two woodland birds: the turtle dove and the crow.

You don't hear the call the day following your public apologies, or even the day after that. It comes on the third day while you're sat on a stool in the goat pen, working down the nanny's final teat with one hand. Milking her has been slow and steady work, impeded because her kid is leaning against your flank, content so long as you keep one hand on his small bristly side. His tiny tail beats rhythmically against your skirt as her milk rains hollowly into the metal bucket with each pull of your pinched fingers. And when the stream has turned to a dribble, you hear that unmistakable sound: a deep, harsh 'kaa-kaa-kaa' that has your heart pattering instantly against your ribs as your head whips of its own accord toward the fence. You strain to see Eddie through those tiny gaps, but you're too far away for the gesture to mean much. Your eyes dip to second best— that familiar stump, gnarled and weathered gray, splintered but surprisingly soft and spongy to the touch as if it would give way under a heavy hand or foot. You cannot see into the dark crevice at its base, but you know what now awaits you there.

You want to throw yourself to the ground and reach elbow-deep into that damp space, dirt and dress be damned. But you know the second you leave the bucket unattended, all the milk you'd painstakingly gathered would be claimed by the kid. You squeeze out the teet a few more times— perhaps a bit too hastily, since the nanny flicks her ears at you— before snatching up the bucket, bringing it to the kitchen to strain with cheesecloth and tuck into the icebox, leaving the bucket and soiled cloth in the sink out of sight. I'll wash it right quick as soon as I check the stump, you assure yourself. You couldn't possibly wait another moment longer to see what Eddie has left for you to find.

You're thrumming with impatience and excitement as you pop the screen door back open, struggling not to rush toward your prize and draw suspicion from anyone who may see you. Thankfully, a furtive glance around the yard ensures you are alone, and with nothing else to impede you, you quickly gather up your dress and kneel before the stump to claim your offering.

You reach past the blanket of fertile green moss that skirts the stump's base, mind flicking through the possibilities of what you might find in there. It will surely be a scrap of paper, but what will its few words convey? Will Eddie beg you to join him at the creek one last time? Tell you he's enlisted someone's help, an emissary of sorts, to go between you so you can speak again? Will he express his longing for your body's closeness? His pain at your separation?

A fluttering thrill blooms low inside you, cautious and sweet, fearful in its intensity. Because another wondering crosses your mind before you have the good sense to prevent it, and that wondering is this:

With an acknowledgment, perhaps, of how unideal the timing and the method is… will Eddie finally put words to the truth you see in that soft expression that graces his features, the one that's only come out for you, only you, only ever you?

Your fingertips graze thin smooth paper nested in a cradle of grass. As you pull your arm out of the stump, you can imagine it so plainly, written in that familiar scrawl: three words to turn a scrap into the most precious of treasures.

But the paper that comes out is not torn hastily from the corner of a brown paper bag as it usually is. Instead, you’re holding a folded piece of stationary, lightweight and crisp white, though its edges have soaked up some dirty dampness from where it has been hiding.

You don't have the luxury of time needed to examine the emotions that stir at this unexpected sight; you need to get to safety first. You tuck the letter beneath the band of your pocketless apron, fumbling with the bow at the small of your back to tighten it. There the paper stays, pressed against your stomach as you return to the kitchen to wash the bucket and cheesecloth. You lay them out to dry, then pass by your mother in a brush of fabric down the narrow hallway. Lightheaded, heart thumping, you creak up the stairs to your bedroom, closing your door and releasing a woosh of held breath. You sink to the floor in front of it, pressing your back to the wood. In lieu of true privacy, this position keeps someone from bursting suddenly in on you before you can conceal what you're doing. With that assurance, you shift forward, untying that tight bow and letting the apron fall across your legs, revealing a flutter of crisp white.

That stirring of emotions returns full force as you run your thumb along the bottom edge of the paper, wiping the collected dirt absently on the hem of your dress. As you unfold it and Eddie's penciled scrawl is revealed, the first wave of your emotion crests to sting sweetly in the corners of your eyes.

The letter isn't particularly long. It doesn't wax poetic about your grace and charm or meander through the hills and valleys of your shared story. It little matters when you can hear Eddie's teasing rasp in every sentence, see his wild beauty in every word, and feel his firm touch in each uneven scratch of letters into the page.

My Dove, Eddie murmurs against your temple, and you sigh, melting with the sticky sweet honey as he voices his claim on you. His Dove. That's what you are.

"Yes, Eddie," you whisper into the stillness of your empty bedroom, lids low, lashes heavy as you read the next line.

First things first. Don't you even think about writin' me back. You hear me? Plush lips curl as your besotted expression falls into a pout, and you hear the rasp of his laugh as he cradles your face in his broad, rough palms. S'not that I don't wanna get a letter from you, you know. I just can't have you in any more trouble. It nearly killed me to see how you were hurtin' on account of me. Umber eyes crinkle, and his thumb brushes the corner of your lip. Promise me you'll listen for once.

You regard him sullenly for a moment. "Fine," you grump, and the crooked smile you're rewarded with softens the edge of your frustration.

Eddie regards you fondly. I know you don't wanna. But you will anyway, 'cause y'can't help but do what I say now that you're all gooey over me.

You flush with heat, bashful but pleased, twisting your lips against the dopey smile that wants to come out for him. Now that that's settled, he snarks, making you yearn to kiss the knowing tilt right off his lips, I want you to know that… well, I really am sorry for makin' a mess of things for us. Maybe if I'd done different, we wouldn't be where we are right now. No use dwellin' on it or nothin', because what's past is past. But I screwed it up for us, and I don't know what to do to fix it, and I'm just sorry, Dove. I really am.

"Oh, Eddie—" His name is a soft, feminine sigh of anguish as the sting returns full force, burning insistently behind your eyes. You grab up his hands, squeezing them tight; the paper wrinkles in your grip. "Eddie, you didn't make a mess of anything. It's not your fault at all, what's happened."

He stares at you mournfully, dark eyes heavy and sad, continuing as if you hadn't spoken. And I know it's only been a few days since I seen you, but I miss you something fierce. S'like my arm's been cut clean off. His lips quirk up just slightly in the corners. And you'll say that's just me bein' dramatic as always, but I mean it. It really does hurt me that much to be away from you.

Eddie's curls brush your cheeks as he gathers you close to him, pressing his nose to the top of your hair. Wish I could hold you. Be there for you, take care of you. But I guess this's all I can do for now. He breathes in deep, and your heart twists sweetly in your chest at the feeling of his breath there— a cool inhale, and then warmth puffing in short bursts when he murmurs, You know you're my best friend, but you're so much more than that. Y'always have been. I told you I'd never let anyone take you from me, and I intend to keep my word, no matter how long I gotta wait.

Your first tear falls, and Eddie's arms tighten around you. He presses a kiss to your hair. In the meantime, he rasps, quiet but sure and brash as always, if you find yourself missin' me, or if you're havin' a hard go of it, or if you just wanna remind yourself where I am. All you gotta do is call for me, Turtle Dove. And when I call back, what I'm really sayin' is, 'I'm here. I'm here, and I ain't goin' nowhere.'

On the page, there's a gap of space and a scratched-out word, and you can feel Eddie's adam's apple bob in a gulp. And if I'm missin' you, or… or if I'm havin' a hard go of it. If you still want me the way that I want you.

The final line of the letter begins to fuzz while you stare down at it, expanding in a bloom of dark-on-white as more tears flood your eyes. But you don't need to see it; the words have already been etched into your heart.

Will you call back to me? So I know you're here, and you ain't goin' anywhere?

Those two questions close the letter; there is no signature. After all, when two like souls flutter their wings and settle themselves to perch together on a shared wire, names become nothing more than an afterthought.

Paper flattens to the wooden floor. It crinkles as you press against it with your palm, leveraging yourself up to your feet blindly as your stirrings finally overtake you in a rush of tears. They flow over as you lurch around the footboard to the windowsill, pushing the gauzy curtains heedlessly aside; they catch the corners of your lips as your fingers twist the stiff window hinge, and your smile stretches in time with the window's jerky progress up the frame.

September air floods in, ruffling gauze and soothing over your forehead and cheeks. The humid heat of summer has finally broken, leaving mugginess a thing of the past. And it's into that air, scented with crisp wind and the first dry musk of fading leaves, that you call for your crow.

Your first coo isn't as graceful as usual because your voice is choked by sorrow and joy combined. But you do not let that stop you. You call out your bedroom window again and again, as loud as you've ever been, eyes fixed on the stoop at the back of the red house. You call and call until the door springs open there, and a crow hops out onto the stoop. As you look down upon him, tears run in trails that drip off your chin, and your cheeks begin to ache with the force of your smile. You cup your small hands around your mouth and call again.

'Turr-turr-turr,' you sing, mimicking the melodic trill of the turtle dove.

This moment will not quell your stirrings. As more days pass, they will billow ever more intensely and change ever more quickly as the transformation continues inside you. Your bitterness and your temper are still to come; you have not seen the last of your aching.

But, for right now, this is all that matters. A pale face tipped up toward the sun, a cloud of dark curls tossing wild and untamed, a boyish whoop of relief and adoration, and the love that swells within you— still unspoken, but no less true.

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satanfemme · 3 months

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A point of hope for trans people in the US:

As of today (2/8/2024), all ELEVEN anti-trans bills that were introduced in the Virginia general assembly this year have been defeated, defending trans rights in Virginia for another year.

these bills included:

two forced outing bills

four trans athlete bans

two resolutions that would redefine "sex" as explicitly the sex you were assigned at birth.

one gender affirming healthcare ban

ALL of these bills were killed in committee!

This is the second year in a row that all anti-trans bills have been defeated in the Virginia general assembly. Last year, twelve bills were introduced, and not a single one passed.

Additionally, I'd like to mention that a shield bill (VA SB 278) was introduced this year that would legally protect anyone who travels into Virginia to receive either gender affirming care or abortion care. As more and more surrounding states ban these types of healthcare, SB 278 would ensure Virginia remains a safe haven for healthcare access. Unfortunately, this bill has been continued to 2025 (and therefor will NOT be passed as a law this year), however it gives us something to look forward to in the 2025 legislative session, assuming Virginia holds a democrat majority going into next year.

This year's success was due to a slight democrat majority as well as strong community testimony. On a local and state level, voting is extremely important, and getting involved in politics is easier than you think it is. Reach out to LGBT rights organizations and ask about how you can help lobby lawmakers, if not give testimony yourself. Show up to the polls and vote for representatives who will defend your rights. And if you live in a state that is not as lucky as Virginia, please please know that a better future for trans people in this country is possible and we are going to achieve it. There are people out there trying their very best to assure that.

#thats my soap box of the day pls reblog if it resonates with u thanks

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todaysdocument · 8 months

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Happy Constitution Day!

Can’t make it to the National Archives Building in person? Check out the hi-res scans in our catalog:

Record Group 11: General Records of the United States Government Series: The Constitution of the United States

Image description: Zoomed-in portion of the first page of the U.S. Constitution, including the words “We the People.”

Transcription:

We the People of the United States in order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defense, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America.

Article. I.

Section.1. All Legislative Powers herein granted shall be vested in a Congress of the United States, which shall consist of a Senate and House of Representatives.

Section.2. The House of Representatives shall be composed of Members chosen every second year by the People of the several States, and the Electors in each State shall have the Qualifications requisite for Electors of the most numerous Branch of the State Legislature.

No Person shall be a Representative who shall not have attained the Age of twenty-five Years, and been seven Years a Citizen of the United States, and who shall not, when elected, be an Inhabitant of that State in which he shall be chosen.

Representatives and direct Taxes shall be apportioned among the several States which may be included within this Union, according to their respective Numbers, which shall be determined by adding to the whole Number of free Persons, including those bound to Service for a Term of Years, and excluding Indians not taxed, three fifths of all other Persons. The actual Enumeration shall be be made within three Years after the first Meeting of the Congress of the United States, and within every subsequent Term of ten Years, in such Manner as they shall by Law direct. The Number of Representatives shall not exceed one for every thirty Thousand, but each State shall have at Least one Representative; and until such enumeration shall be made, the State of New Hampshire shall be entitled to chuse three, Massachusetts eight, Rhode-Island and Providence Plantations one, Connecticut five, New-York six, New Jersey four, Pennsylvania eight, Delaware one, Maryland six, Virginia ten, North Carolina five, South Carolina five, and Georgia three.

When vacancies happen in the Representation from any State, the Executive Authority thereof shall issue Writs of Election to fill such Vacancies.

The House of Representatives shall chuse their Speaker and other Officers; and shall have the sole Power of Impeachment.

Section.3. The Senate of the United States shall be composed of two Senators from each State, chosen by the Legislature thereof, for six Years; and each Senator shall have one Vote.

Immediately after they shall be assembled in Consequence of the first Election, they shall be divided as equally as may be into three Classes. The Seats of the Senators of the first Class shall be vacated at the Expiration of the second Year, of the second Class at the Expiration of the fourth Year, and of the third Class at the Expiration of the sixth Year, so that one third may be chosen every second Year; and if Vacancies happen by Resignation, or otherwise, during the Recess of the Legislature of any State, the Executive thereof may make temporary Appointments until the next Meeting of the Legislature, which shall then fill such Vacancies.

No Person shall be a Senator who shall not have attained to the Age of thirty Years, and been nine Years a Citizen of the United States, and who shall not, when elected, be an Inhabitant of that State for which he shall be chosen.

The Vice President of the United States shall be President of the Senate, but shall have no Vote, unless they be equally divided.

The Senate shall chuse their other Officers, and also a President pro tempore, in the Absence of the Vice President, or when he shall exercise the Office of President of the United States.

The Senate shall have the sole Power to try all Impeachments. When sitting for that Purpose, they shall be on Oath or Affirmation. When the President of the United States is tried, the Chief Justice shall preside: And no Person shall be convicted without the Concurrence of two thirds of the Members present.

Judgment in Cases of Impeachment shall not extend further than to removal from Office, and disqualification to hold and enjoy any Office of honor, Trust or Profit under the United States: but the Party convicted shall nevertheless be liable and subject to Indictment, Trial, Judgment and Punishment, according to Law.

Section.4. The Times, Places and Manner of holding Elections for Senators and Representatives, shall be prescribed in each State by the Legislature thereof; but the Congress may at any time by Law make or alter such Regulations, except as to the Places of chusing Senators.

The Congress shall assemble at least once in every Year, and such Meeting shall be on the first Monday in December, unless they shall by Law appoint a different Day.

Section.5. Each House shall be the Judge of the Elections, Returns and Qualifications of its own Members, and a Majority of each shall constitute a Quorum to do Business; but a smaller Number may adjourn from day to day, and maybe authorized to compel the Attendance of absent Members, in such Manner, and under such Penalties as each House may provide.

Each House may determine the Rules of its Proceedings, punish its Members for disorderly Behaviour, and, with the Concurrence of two thirds, expel a Member.

Each House shall keep a Journal of its Proceedings, and from time to time publish the same, excepting such Parts as may in their Judgment require Secrecy; and the Yeas and Nays of the Members of either House on any question shall, at the Desire of one-fifth of those Present, be entered on the Journal.

Neither House, during the Session of Congress, shall, without the Consent of the other, adjourn for more than three days, nor to any other Place than that in which the two Houses shall be sitting.

Section.6. The Senators and Representatives shall receive a Compensation for their Services, to be ascertained by Law, and paid out of the Treasury of the United States. They shall in all Cases, except Treason, Felony and Breach of the Peace, be privileged from Arrest during their Attendance at the Session of their respective Houses, and in going to and returning from the same; and for any Speech or Debate in either House, they shall not be questioned in any other Place.

No Senator or Representative shall, during the Time for which he was elected, be appointed to any civil Office under the Authority of the United States, which shall have been created, or the Emoluments whereof shall have been increased during such time; and no Person holding any Office under the United States, shall be a Member of either House during his Continuance in Office.

Section.7. All Bills for raising Revenue shall originate in the House of Representatives; but the Senate may propose or concur with Amendments as on other Bills.

Every Bill which shall have passed the House of Representatives and the Senate, shall, before it becomes a Law, be presented to the President of the

#archivesgov #September 17 #Constitution Day #U.S. Constitution #We the People

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soberscientistlife · 7 months

Text

2nd October 1800 — Nat Turner was born in the Tidewater region of Virginia. He was an anti-slavery revolutioniary, an insurrectionist and started one of the deadliest slave revolt in the U.S.

Around early 1828, he was convinced that he “was ordained for some great purpose in the hands of the Almighty”. A solar eclipse and an unusual atmospheric event and is what inspired Nat Turner to start his insurrection, which began on August 21, 1831.

Nat Turner believed God was showing him a sign by putting a black man hand over the Sun. Its been known for thousands of years solar eclipse give off energy.

On August 21, he began the rebellion with a few trusted fellow enslaved men. The rebels traveled from house to house, freeing enslaved people and killing their White owners.

Turner’s rebellion was suppressed within two days and he was captured October 30. On November 5, he was convicted and sentenced to death and was hanged November 11, 1831.

The state executed 56 other Black men suspected of being involved in the uprising and another 200 Black people, most of whom had nothing to do with the uprising, were beaten, tortured, and murdered by angry White mobs.

The Virginia General Assembly passed new laws making it unlawful to teach enslaved or free Black or Mulatto (mixed) people to read or write and restricting Black people from holding religious meetings without the presence of a licensed White minister.

Source: African Archives

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nordleuchten · 3 months

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Ah, Tumblr. Why would they hide my question from you🥲? Here is the rather long question that I wanted to ask.

I've been wondering about Lafayette's interactions with his in-laws—not the Noailles, but his children's. What did he think about his sons-in-law? Did they get along? How did the marriages take place, or anything related to them?

I'm currently in the very long process of writing a novel about Adrienne, now entering the French Revolution, still having a long way to go before any of the Lafayette kids get married. But my God, the French Revolution is stressful as hell to write☹️. I just want my girl to get some rest… And so, I guess I just want to skip ahead to the lighthearted part. While Adrienne’s thoughts and interactions are pretty much all in Virginie’s book, and maybe some in her sister’s memoirs, Mister Lafayette’s is a bit confusing for me because he has so much information from all different sources. (Which brings me to my next question: What book do you recommend for referencing information about Gilbert? It’s too stressful to always go from one source to another for him.😭)

The information on this blog has been immensely helpful! I would have been lost as to where to find the sources that I needed. hope you have a good day, and hold on to your historical passion! 👍☺️

Dear @daydream-247,

first of all, that sounds like a very interesting project! When you come around to publishing something, I would absolutely love to read it! And thank you for your kind word, it is always nice to hear that other people can take something away from what I post and are not annoyed by me. :-)

As to the partners of his children, La Fayette had a very good relationship with all of them. I am actually quite happy that you asked about that part of the family, since this topic is quite dear to my heart. I think there is not enough talk about that – as it is with so many things in La Fayette’s life that have nothing to do with Revolutions and America. The La Fayette’s and their family and friends were so tight nit, so intimate and loving. La Fayette – and also Adrienne, while she was still alive, loved being grand-parents and in La Fayette’s case later great-grandparents. While their children were able to go their own ways in live, they and their families always remained very close to their parents. The children’s marriages were happy ones – not without personal tragedy of course, but they all weathered the challenges thrown at them. To the best of my knowledge, there were no affairs, mistresses, and betrayals in that generation.

But enough of me being fascinated by family dynamics, lets us get to your question! La Fayette wrote on December 1, 1802 to James Madison:

I Live in an Agreable place, About forty Miles from paris. My Children are With me. Georges Has Married the daughter of Tracy whom Mr. Jefferson Has known in the Constituent Assembly and Who is One of His Warmest Admirers. My Elder daughter is the Wife of Charles La tour Maubourg the Youngest Brother of My Olmutz Companion and Has two Lovely Little Girls. My daughter in Law is Within a few Months to Encrease Our family. Georges is Now at turin Where the 11th Rgt of Huzzards Has its Quarters. Virginia, My Younger daughter, will, I think, Be Married Before Long.

“To James Madison from Lafayette, 1 December 1802,” Founders Online, National Archives, https://founders.archives.gov/documents/Madison/02-04-02-0176. [Original source: The Papers of James Madison, Secretary of State Series, vol. 4, 8 October 1802 – 15 May 1803, ed. Mary A. Hackett, J. C. A. Stagg, Jeanne Kerr Cross, Susan Holbrook Perdue, and Ellen J. Barber. Charlottesville: University Press of Virginia, 1998, pp. 166–170.] (01/25/2024)

La Fayette was right concerning Virginie. She married on April 20, 1803. She would probably have married sooner, but La Fayette slipped on the icy pavement that winter and broke his femur close to the hip bone – an injury that is no laughing matter, neither in the 21st nor in the early 19th century. The wedding was postponed, giving La Fayette time to recover.

Let us now have a closer look at the marriages and resulting families of each of Adrienne’s and La Fayette’s children. Anastasie, their oldest surviving child, was the first one to marry. She married Juste-Charles de Faÿ de la Tour-Maubourg. Charles was the younger brother of Marie-Charles-César de Faÿ, comte de la Tour-Maubourg. César was one of La Fayette’s dearest friends. Do you remember this heartbreaking letter La Fayette wrote after Adrienne’s death? That letter was addressed to César, and I have never again seen La Fayette lay his soul and emotions so open – not even in front of Washington.

Charles was for a very, very short time imprisoned as well but quickly freed. After all the prisoners of Olmütz were set free, they settled at Wittmold and were reunited with their respected families. It was there that Anastasie met – or at least fell in love with, Charles. They were married on Mai 8, 1798 in the private chapel in Wittmold by the Abbé Luchet (and oh this blasted certificate of marriage! One day, one day …) They soon started their own family, and it was here that tragedy struck. While both of their twin daughters survived the birth, one died only a few weeks later. Sadly, the little girl is often forgotten and not at all mentioned when La Fayette’s grandchildren are discussed. I will not say much about the grandchildren here in general because firstly, this post would get even longer than it already is (I am so sorry!) and secondly, I have a post in the making going through all of the grandchildren and possible some great-grandchildren – including the ones that died young or were stillborn/miscarried. I feel they should not be left out. Anastasie lost at least two, if not more children and Georges lost at least one daughter. So, different topic for a different post if you do not mind.

What is interesting about Anastasie’s marriage – especially her Noailles relatives appeared to be less than enthusiastic about the match. Anastasie’s aunt, the Marquise de Montague wrote in her own memoirs:

Frau von La Fayette fand die Parthie nicht allein sehr angemessen, sondern auch wie man damals das Recht hatte zu hoffen, sehr vortheilhaft. Der General war von ganzem Herzen damit einverstanden. In Witmold aber schrie man laut dagegen, wie nur das Projekt zur Sprache kam. Herr von Mun behauptete nur bei den Wilden Amerika‘s könne man sich so verheirathen, und Frau von Tessé bestand darauf, man hätte seit Adam und Eva nichts Gleiches gesehen. Die Sarkasmen nüßten Nichts, Frau von La Fayette hielt sich fest, und als Alles unwiderruflich entschieden war, sah man, wie sich die Unzufriedenheit der Frau von Tessé in eine zärtliche und liebenswürdige Sorgsamkeit auflöste.

Marquise of Montague, Anna Pauline Dominika von Noailles, Marquise von Montague – Ein Lebensbild, Münster, Aschendorff, 1871, p. 204.

My translation:

Madame de La Fayette not only thought the match very appropriate, but also, as one had the right to hope at the time, very advantageous. The General was wholeheartedly in favour of it. In Witmold, however, they protested loudly against it as soon as the project was brought up. Mr von Mun [I have no idea who he was] claimed that only among the savages of America one could marry in this way, and Madame de Tessé insisted that nothing like it had been seen since Adam and Eve. The sarcasm was of no avail, Madame La Fayette held her ground, and when everything was irrevocably decided, Mademe de Tessé’s dissatisfaction dissolved into a tender and amiable diligence.

As you see, Adrienne’s and La Fayette’s primary concern was the happiness of their daughter. La Fayette wrote on May 20, 1798 to George Washington:

We Have spent the winter in Holstein, on danish territory, in a Hired Country Seat about Sixty English miles from Hamburgh—My friend Latour Maubourg and His family were with us—we had visits from france and other Countries—(…). Here My eldest daughter Anastasie was Married to Charles Maubourg my friends’ Youngest Brother.

“To George Washington from Lafayette, 20 May 1798,” Founders Online, National Archives, https://founders.archives.gov/documents/Washington/06-02-02-0213. [Original source: The Papers of George Washington, Retirement Series, vol. 2, 2 January 1798 – 15 September 1798, ed. W. W. Abbot. Charlottesville: University Press of Virginia, 1998, pp. 282–285.] (01/25/2024)

I am honestly not quite sure what the problem here was. Since the Noailles part of the family voiced their criticism, the problem seems to lay primarily with Charles. The critics very much still belonged to the “arranged-marriage-for the advancement-of-the-family” generation and I suppose that was the issue. The marriage was not arranged and both the La Fayette’s and the La Tour-Maubourg’s were “ruined” during the French Revolution. There was not much for both parties to expect – beside a happy marriage based on mutual love and affection.

La Fayette at once started to include his new son-in-law in his letter:

My wife, my daughters, my Son in law Beg the tender Homage of their Affection, Gratitude and Respect to Be presented to you, my dear General, and to Mrs Washington (…)

The next one to marry was Georges. He married Françoise Émilie Destutt de Tracy. Just like with his older sister’s husband, there was already a connection between La Fayette and his new in-laws. Émilie’s father, Antoine Louis Claude Destutt de Tracy, was one of La Fayette’s oldest friends. They became friends prior to the French Revolution and both later served in the Chambre des Deputes and had similar political views, they both opposed Napoléon’s rise to power.

Based on his writings alone, Émilie might have been La Fayette’s favourite. He wrote to Thomas Jefferson on January 20, 1802:

My Son Has Returned to His Regiment in Italy—I Expect Him in the Spring, and probably to Marry a Very Amiable daughter to the Senator tracy Whom You Have known as a patriot Member of the Constituent Assembly

“To Thomas Jefferson from Lafayette, 30 January 1802,” Founders Online, National Archives, https://founders.archives.gov/documents/Jefferson/01-36-02-0305. [Original source: The Papers of Thomas Jefferson, vol. 36, 1 December 1801–3 March 1802, ed. Barbara B. Oberg. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2009, pp. 480–481.] (01/25/2024)

He reported on November 1, 1802, again to Thomas Jefferson:

With me they Now Are Retired into the State of Rural Life Where I am fixed Among the Comforts of An United Loving family—it Has Been, Encreased, as I Did in time inform You, By the Happy Acquisition of an Amiable Daughter in Law (…)

“To Thomas Jefferson from Lafayette, 1 November 1802,” Founders Online, National Archives, https://founders.archives.gov/documents/Jefferson/01-38-02-0551. [Original source: The Papers of Thomas Jefferson, vol. 38, 1 July–12 November 1802, ed. Barbara B. Oberg. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2011, pp. 616–617.] (01/25/2024)

He wrote on August 18, 1800 to his friend Masclet:

My whole family is now collected at this place, where my aunt had been for many years despairing ever to see us. It has been also for me a great satisfaction to present to her my beloved daughter-in-law Emilie Tracy, now the wife of the happy George, and in whom I find every amiable quality my heart could wish for. I intend conducting the young couple back to Auteuil towards the middle of Fructidor, my return there being hastened by the news of the intended journey wherein General Fitzpatrick and Charles Fox are to meet at Paris.

Jules Germain Cloquet, Recollections of the Private Life of General Lafayette, Baldwin and Cradock, London, 1835, p. 110.

Here is what La Fayette wrote about Émilie to Thomas Jefferson on February 21, 1825, right after the death of her mother:

We intend to Come again from Boston to Newyork, Philadelphia, Washington and to pay you a Visit at Monticello Before we Embark By the Middle of August for france Where We Are Recalled, Sooner than We Expected, By the most lamentable death of mde de tracy george’s Mother in law. I Have urged My Son to Return immediately But His generous wife, who is a tender daughter to me, Had on the first moment of the loss, adjured Him not to leave me, and it is a Great Motive for Me to Make as much Haste As We Can With propriety do it.

“To Thomas Jefferson from Marie-Joseph-Paul-Yves-Roch-Gilbert du Motier, marquis de Lafayette, 21 February 1825,” Founders Online, National Archives, https://founders.archives.gov/documents/Jefferson/98-01-02-4986. [This is an Early Access document from The Papers of Thomas Jefferson: Retirement Series. It is not an authoritative final version.] (01/25/2024)

La Fayette wrote much about Émilie and all that he wrote was very positive. What he wrote about his sons-in-law was different – not to say that there was less affection, but it was, at least on paper, expressed differently. Now, why was that? It could be for personal reasons, La Fayette simply “clicked” better with Émilie. It could be because Émilie spend much more time with and around La Fayette than his sons-in-law did. It could be because, by social convention, you would and could write differently about your daughter-in-law then about your sons-in-law. Lastly, and that is just a hunch of mine, Émilie, as a woman, was the one to bear the children. For La Fayette children were definitely in the female domain – not because he necessarily thought that childbirth should be a women’s only purpose but because I think he understood and valued that the birth of a child was the result of a great deal of pain and work on the women’s side and a, while biological important, negatable part on the man’s part. In short, I like to imagine that the thanked and valued Émilie for her hard work in making him a grandfather.

La Fayette addressed and described Émilie as his daughter, he wrote about having “three daughters” (to James Madison, August 28, 1826). While the same sentiment was definitely present in the relationships with his sons-in-law, I think he never put it quite that distinctly to paper. But enough about Émilie, let us move on to the last couple.

As I have already mentioned Virginie married Louis de Lasteyrie du Saillant, Marquis de Lasteyrie on April 20, 1803. I believe that Louis was a nephew of a friend of La Fayette but I would need to check that again. Louis died quite young, aged 46 in 1826 and he was buried on the ground reserved for the La Fayette family on the Picpus Cemetery. He was buried there after Adrienne and before La Fayette.

Things were looking pretty good on the domestic front for La Fayette. Within five years, all of his children were happily married and two of them had already little families of their own. What was probably most important, despite her failing health, Adrienne saw all three of her surviving children marry.

In letters to his friends, particular to Thomas Jefferson, La Fayette never forgot to give updates not only about himself but also about his children and their families. He often asked for them to be remembered to people just like he wanted to be remembered. He gave also updates on the military careers of his sons-in-law. Louis entered the Light Dragoons in 1804, leaving the army as a Colonel. Charles and George often served in closely related positions. They both realized that being attached to La Fayette would make advancement in the army difficult and so both of them left the army eventually. Neither of them seemed to hold any grudges.

That much in “short”. Now, as to books – the unsatisfactory answer is: It depends? Are you looking for a general overview, an overview about a specific topic, a political analyses, a character analysis, something critical, a personal account, something contemporary or something that was written much later, a collection of anecdotes to flesh out La Fayette’s character? There are sources for all of this, but they all serve different purposes.

I hope I could help you out and give you a starting point for your research. A chapter about the love lives of Anastasie, Georges and Virginie could definitely serve as a little cheer-up chapter between the French Revolution and Adrienne’s death – both for the readers and your characters. Happy writing and I hope you have/had a lovely day!

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