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queerpanikkar · 2 years

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darlin', I'm just tryin' to tell ya

“You’re kidding,” Ravi mutters in the waiting room as Bobby discusses things with the vet tech and Buck holds this incredibly large mutt in his arms like a baby and Eddie looks at Buck like his world is imploding inwards. “Great. What do we do with Cancer Dog?”

“Ravi,” Hen hisses. “We are in public.”

ravi begins, or something

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When Ravi is 7 years old, he goes to the hospital for the first time.

He doesn’t remember it, later. It’s not one of those memories that stick after all the in and out and up and down and do the hokey pokey or what-fucking-ever. The first time he goes to the hospital, it’s because he broke his leg racing down the school-yard with his friends. It’s not because he has cancer.

The second time, he’s 11. His primary care physician tells his mother it’s growing pains. He prescribes Ravi a heating pack for when his knee aches too much.

The third time, he’s 12 years old and in so much pain he can’t even see straight. The third time, his younger sister watches him with wide, terrified eyes in the back of their Honda Civic and there’s no music playing. The third time, even though it feels like another bone break, the doctor gets his x-rays back, and then promptly books Ravi in for an MRI.

“We want to run some more tests,” she says, frowning slightly. “So that we can make a conclusive diagnosis.”

Ravi’s mother’s grip tightens on his shoulder, and she keeps glancing at her phone, waiting for his father to call. Ananya, all of 10, sits on a chair and plays Pokémon on Ravi’s silver Nintendo DS Lite, which is only okay because she never remembers to save the game. The doctor’s office is white, sterile, and there aren’t even any fun posters on the wall, which is Ravi’s first sign that everything’s about to go to shit.

“Conclusive diagnosis,” he repeats carefully, pushing up his glasses. He’s farsighted. “Why—I mean, what are you guys looking for?”

“Ravi,” his mom shushes before the doctor can lie or something. She doesn’t say it through gritted teeth like she might if he was being bothersome at the local HEB, which is Ravi’s second sign. “We’ll talk later, okay?”

He blinks, and then Ananya tells him that she caught a Flareon—“In the wild?”—and the doctor leaves and his dad calls and comes over and gives them a dollar each for the vending machine and Ravi forgets he’s in the hospital at all until they leave and it’s dark outside and the ache in his leg flares up again.

His dad, with his quiet face and hands in his pockets, doesn’t say anything that night when Ravi asks if they can turn the Air Conditioning down low so that he can sleep through the pain. “Amma gave me Advil,” he explains, at midnight, when his acchan catches him messing with the temperature. “But I still can’t sleep.”

“I’ll fix it,” his dad tells him. It’s late. Ravi doesn’t know why he’s still awake. “How much colder do you want it?”

“Cold,” he answers, rubbing at his face and praying that his dad can’t see the DS still flashing light underneath his pillow.

He wakes up to it freezing—ache in his leg just a dull throb. His dad doesn’t complain about the electricity bill the next day.

(That’s his third sign.)

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tags: @berthulf @henwilsons @hetrez @kissyboytroye @dispatchersdiaz @1stbonesfan @polargypsy @whyisshesoromantic @itsbuckactually @buckbegns @ravipanikar @fruitydiaz @dontknowwherethereis @bedhadakdiaz @theideaofhome @zaedabi @britishmysteries @lawyerlauren @moonn-liiight @diazcoded

#happy and sad at the same time fr #ive been putting off dinner to post this gonna go eat and do tags later idk enjoy #911fic #ravi begins #raviweek2022 #buddie if u squint

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existence-is-overrated · 1 year

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i got tagged by @turtlelightwood to post 10 of the songs i’ve been listening to on repeat recently! thank you :)💗

1. The Adults Are Talking - The Strokes

2. Hold Me Like A Grudge - Fall Out Boy

3. Undercover Martyn - Two Door Cinema Club

4. Killer - KEY

5. You’re On Your Own, Kid - Taylor Swift

6. Bad Omens - 5 Seconds of Summer

7. XS - Rina Sawayama

8. Man In Love - Infinite

9. I AM - IVE

10. Call Me What You Like - Lovejoy

tagging: @a-serioholic @allonsym @purpledovefeather @tjlauren @pushbuttonkitty @theshiningbeacon @britishmysteries @sunlightwaves @crimes-and-gelato + anyone else if you want!

(alternatively, feel free to completely ignore if you don’t want to🫶🏻🫶🏻)

#tag game #it’s such a mixture ik!!#my music taste knows no bounds lol

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msjessicaday · 4 years

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@britishmysteries replied to your post “max’s anger is so uncalled for? yes he should get a response after...”

Full offence but if someone flash mobbed me I would probably hate them forever.

HARD same. everyone is different and flash mobs can be cute i guess but lyk who actually wants to be put on the spot like that

#britishmysteries #replies

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bookwyrmshoard · 5 years

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#whatimreading : Rat Race by Dick Francis is a classic Francis mystery. The hero/narrator in this one is a pilot. The author had flown with the RAF, but this book is based on the experience of his wife Mary, who took flying lessons to research an earlier book, discovered a love of flying, and got her license and instrument rating. Eventually the Francises started an air taxi business much like the one in this book—though undoubtedly better managed! All that experience made for a very realistic background against which to set a satisfying mystery. .......... @canelo_co ......... #currentlyreading #currentread #mystery #mysterynovel #britishmysteries #dickfrancis #kindlebooks #kindle #kindlepaperwhite #canelopublishing #glasses #cantreadwithoutmyglasses #books#bookstagram #bookblogger #reread #rereading #blackandwhite https://www.instagram.com/p/ByhGDkXAxdh/?igshid=q77pykhl7k97

#whatimreading #currentlyreading #currentread #mystery #mysterynovel #britishmysteries #dickfrancis #kindlebooks #kindle #kindlepaperwhite #canelopublishing #glasses #cantreadwithoutmyglasses #books #bookstagram #bookblogger #reread #rereading #blackandwhite

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gothicvamperstein · 3 years

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As the pandemic makes travelling difficult, it's nice reading books as an alternative. Now I'm heading to the Yorkshire Moors with the librarian gone amateur sleuth Kitt Hartley and DI Halloran thanks to @helenography and @quercusbooks . . . . #currentlyreading #currentread #booksandhotchocolate #mysterynovel #cosymystery #britishmysteries #bookstagram #bibliophile #bookworm #bookwormproblems #bookdragon #igbooks #igreads #booksarelife #booksaremypassion #booksareawesome #booksaremagic #booksareagirlsbestfriend #booklover #readingismyhappyplace #readingiscool #readingismagic #readingislife #readingissexy #readingismysuperpower #ilovereading #ilovebooks #bookbloggersofig #bookbloggersofinstagram #bookbloggerlife https://www.instagram.com/p/CNnAvmDL9aH/?igshid=1ojeyammbst80

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emcmillanauthorsupport · 4 years

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WHERE DEATH REJOICES: a Kate Gardener Mystery by Gabriella Messina Available 4/28... Pre-order NOW!!! www.amazon.com/dp/B086S5BZZM Caught between Scylla… Lawyer Ethan Warwick is found murdered, his body bound to the Traitor’s Gate. The body has barely reached the morgue, though, before an explosive crime rocks an ethnic neighborhood in South London. Tensions run high when a popular Muslim Youth leader is injured in the blast, and the Murder Squad detectives are drawn into the investigation when a body is found in the rubble… with stab wounds. And Charybdis… Kate struggles to work with Anti-Terror officers hovering around Lambeth, while the situation involving the Cavendish Club reaches fever pitch… One member is gunned down and now even the Prime Minister’s life is in danger. In pursuit of justice for the dead and the living, Kate finds herself between a rock and a hard place as she decides what she is prepared to do… and to sacrifice… in the place where death rejoices. . . . . . #kategardenermysteries #mysterybooks #mysteryseries #crimefiction #suspensebooks #britishmysteries #womensleuths #mustreadbooks #greatreads #bookworld #bookstagram #igbooks #bookish #gabysbooksandmuchness #NewRelease #MustRead #GabriellaMessina https://www.instagram.com/p/B_VpADQgFHc/?igshid=oxsrmpy370jv

#kategardenermysteries #mysterybooks #mysteryseries #crimefiction #suspensebooks #britishmysteries #womensleuths #mustreadbooks #greatreads #bookworld #bookstagram #igbooks #bookish #gabysbooksandmuchness #newrelease #mustread #gabriellamessina

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cupofteajones · 2 years

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Books of 2022: The Binding Room by @queennads ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️/5 ***** Absolutely loved this! Nadine Matheson is becoming one of my favorite authors! Not only she writes gripping and heart-racing thrillers, she also develops realistic characters that leap off the page and make you as the reader identify with them and want to learn more about them. If you are fan of mysteries, then Matheson's books need to be on your list! You can read the full review by heading to the link in my bio! #bookblogger #books2022 #books #bookstagram #nadinematheson #ukbooks #britishbooks #britishmysteries #cupofteabooksof2022 #cupoftea #bookreview #bookseries #anjelicahenley #cupoftea https://www.instagram.com/p/CigWT35rshM/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

#bookblogger #books2022 #books #bookstagram #nadinematheson #ukbooks #britishbooks #britishmysteries #cupofteabooksof2022 #cupoftea #bookreview #bookseries #anjelicahenley

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bidib · 5 years

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Saint George et le dragon [album jeunesse]

Je vous avais parlé de la collection Caldecott en janvier avec un conte classique mis en image par Paul O. Zelinsky qui nous avait amené dans une ambiance Renaissance italienne. Aujourd'hui c'est une légende dorée à l'ambiance médiévale que je vous propose.

De Saint George je ne savais pas grand chose et j'ignorais qu'il était le Saint patron de l'Angleterre. J'étais ravie de découvrir cette légende grâce à cet album, mais je dois avouer que le texte de Margaret Hodges m'a laissé assez indifférente. Est-ce le texte original où sa traduction qui est en cause, je ne serait le dire. Mais alors qu'on nous annonce " une adaptation très libre et non dénoué d'humour" moi je n'ai vu qu'un texte assez fade et très classique. Voir cette publication sur Instagram Saint George et le dragon par Trina Schart Hyman Une publication partagée par Bidib Ma Petite Médiathèque (@bidibmpm) le 7 Févr. 2019 à 8 :01 PST Cet album s'inspire de l'un des récit de La légende dorée, recueils de légendes chrétiennes sur la vie des Saint écrit au XIII siècle par Jacques de Voragine. L'ambiance moyenâgeuse est très bien rendue par les illustration de Trina Schart Hyman. J'ai beaucoup aimé ses dessins mais aussi la mise en page avec ses bordures illustrées qui font un penser au enluminures. ces bordures, parfois simplement décoratives, viennent enrichir de nouveaux détails les illustrations principales et font de ce livre un très bel objet. En tout cas, c'est pour moi l'illustration qui fait l'intérêt principal de ce livre. Mais je ne vous ai même pas raconté la légende de Saint Georges ! Bon, elle n'a rien de très original et le titre suffit à la résumer, un preux chevalier, un mauvais dragon, une belle princesse pure et courageuse. Et voilà vous tenez votre recette.

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#albumjeunesse #BritishMysteries #challengeContesetLégendes #collectionCaldecott #contesetlégendes #LeGenévrieréditions #légendedorée #MargaretHodges #TrinaSchartHyman

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ipgbook · 7 years

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#mysterybooks fans & friends: ALERT 🚨!! @mystery_ink_bookstore currently has #signed #firstedition copies of @peterjamesuk latest NEED YOU DEAD for sale (18% off and while limited supplies last) on their website www.mysteryink.com - go grab your next #beachread before they disappear 😎🔪⏳#readcrimefiction #mysteries #murdermystery #crime #britishmysteries #peterjames #roygrace #needyoudead #internationalbestseller #nextread #igreads #tbr #tbt #booksonbooks #signedcopies #mysterybooks #bookstagram #instareads #shopsmall #buylocal #supportindies @panmacmillan (at Landmark Theatres)

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rj-anderson · 4 years

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What can I say about the Lord Peter Wimsey series that hasn’t been said, eloquently and at length, by other lovers of Golden Age mystery fiction, 20th century British literature, sparkling wit, and smart, character-driven romance? But they are high up on the list of the #booksthatmademe, so I’m going to try. . Despite being fond of mysteries in general and historical British mysteries in particular, I didn’t know these books existed until I was in my early twenties. But once I’d read the series, and particularly the four Wimsey/Vane books beginning with STRONG POISON and continuing on through HAVE HIS CARCASE, GAUDY NIGHT and BUSMAN’S HONEYMOON, Dorothy L. Sayers instantly became one of my all-time favourite authors, and a huge and lasting influence on me as a writer. . It’s not that Sayers is flawless, or that every aspect of her stories captivates me equally. But what she absolutely nailed, for me, was creating two main characters who were fascinatingly complex, delightfully clever, and lovable despite (and sometimes because of) their brokenness. Both Peter and Harriet have been wounded in different ways, and both wear different armour to hide it. Peter is breezy and glib-tongued, while Harriet is guarded and prickly. But they’re constantly challenged and gradually disarmed by one another as they work to solve the mysteries presented to them, and I never get tired of seeing those walls gradually come down. . I don’t make a secret of the fact that A POCKET FULL OF MURDER and A LITTLE TASTE OF POISON owe a lot to these books. Nobody else would write me the YA Peter and Harriet-inspired book I kept asking for, so I ended up writing it as MG instead. The Uncommon Magic duology is peppered with allusions to the Wimsey novels, it takes place in a similar time period, and while Quiz and Isaveth are not the same characters as Peter and Harriet, they never would have existed without them. . If you like mysteries even a little bit and you haven’t read the Wimsey books, you should. . . . #bookstagram #bookish #BookRecommendations #mysteries #dorothylsayers #lordpeterwimsey #harrietvane #classicmysteries #britishmystery #goldenagemystery #writinginspirations https://www.instagram.com/p/B_EKwkZgwQl/?igshid=1s39m4je49yts

#booksthatmademe #bookstagram #bookish #bookrecommendations #mysteries #dorothylsayers #lordpeterwimsey #harrietvane #classicmysteries #britishmystery #goldenagemystery #writinginspirations

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msjessicaday · 4 years

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@britishmysteries replied to your post “@britishmysteries replied to your post “max’s anger is so uncalled...”

@msjessicaday have you seen that vid of that guy who flashmob proposes to his gf and she like throws his guitar away and runs away? It’s so cringe and I feel so bad for the guy but I feel like you should know whether the person you’re dating would like that?!!

uh i have not seen that video but i actively avoid watching videos like that because it IS so cringe. and EXACTLY. but also applies to zoey and max because even though they aren’t dating, they’re supposedly best friends??? max saying “were we even friends at all?” is hilariously ironic

#britishmysteries #replies

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queerpanikkar · 2 years

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stay cool (it's just a kiss)

“So,” Chimney starts, trying to ease into it. “What do you think about Buck making out with a guy?”

or: Hen tells Chimney that Buck made out with the new firefighter. She just...doesn't clarify which one.

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Chimney thinks that maybe, just a little bit, he might possibly be missing something.

Hen tells him that Buck made out with the new firefighter at a bar, which, so Buck 1.0 of him but Chim can’t exactly say anything since this maybe the third time in so many years that he and Maddie have taken a break. And if he’s focusing on Buck’s complete mess of a love life in order not to focus on the awful stinging feeling that’s burning its way through his chest, then that’s his business.

Anyway, he’s not going to give Buck shit for cheating on Taylor Kelly. He doesn’t necessarily approve, but he also doesn’t think it’s his place to disapprove, right now. Not so soon after his hasty apology and Buck’s even more awkward forgiveness. They’re not at a place where Chimney can have an opinion even though his opinion is that the team is a mess. Eddie’s gone, and there’s a new firefighter/paramedic named Jonah, and so Buck went and cheated on his girlfriend.

“Buck made out with the new firefighter,” he repeats. “Huh. Can’t say I saw that coming.”

Hen fixes him with one of her patented glances, but she relents. “That’s fair,” she says finally. “I suppose you weren’t here to see all the,” she waves her hands in the air. “Spiraling.”

“Uh huh,” Chim agrees absentmindedly, because yeah, he doesn’t condone the cheating, but he thought Hen, of all people, would be a bit happier about this development. Not that anyone really thinks Buck is straight, but he’s never been so open about it before.

Honestly, despite the infidelity of it, Chimney’s a bit proud of him for making out with Jonah. Which sounds weird when he puts it in that order in his head, so he doesn’t say anything.

“Do you think he…” Chimney knows there are other things, more important things, like whether or not Bobby will give him his job back. “Like, do you think Buck likes them? Enough to break up with Taylor?”

Hen snorts. “I think there are a lot of people Buck likes more than Taylor Kelly,” she says, sipping her beer. “You’ll never guess what he bought her for Christmas.”

“Sex toy,” he answers immediately.

Hen makes a disgusted face at him. “No,” she enunciates clearly. “And please don’t—we’re all already scarred from the Bobby and Athena thing.”

Chim doesn’t know what the Bobby and Athena thing is, but he has this vague idea of Bobby buying Athena a sex toy for Christmas and then promptly wonders how soon he can book a lobotomy.

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tags: @berthulf @henwilsons @hetrez @kissyboytroye @dispatchersdiaz @1stbonesfan @polargypsy @whyisshesoromantic @itsbuckactually @buckbegns @himbodiaz @adamsparirsh @ravipanikar @fruitydiaz @dontknowwherethereis @bedhadakdiaz @theideaofhome @zaedabi @britishmysteries @lawyerlauren @moonn-liiight @sunshinediaz

#this is so stupid the writing isn't even that good but please laugh #911fic #911 fic #madney #buddie

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emcmillanauthorsupport · 4 years

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alydiarackham · 4 years

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(Cover by me)

Chapter One

London

November 3rd

1881

Fog.

Lurking in low, thick clouds around the faces of the buildings that lined Brompton Road. Loitering in doorways, veiling windows. Chilling the feet of the men who walked the paving with crisp steps and bowed heads. Swirling around the black skirts of the ladies who reluctantly shut ringing shop doors behind them as they ventured out into the gloom. Parting like a ghostly river before the clatter of the hansom horse; hanging in a wake behind the driver’s battered top hat and cloaked shoulders. Stifling the throbbing orange street lamps beneath shrouds of cobweb.

She perched on the curb of the walkway, glancing up and down the broad street. As she paused, a disembodied bell in some nearby tower voiced five haunting, identical notes. She drew herself up, gripped her small, light bag tighter in her gloved hand. She held her breath, waiting for any clamor of a cab heading toward her through the wall of mist.

Nothing but a distant trundle of an omnibus. So she braced herself again, stepped off the curb, and onto the cobbles.

Her shoes clapped against the damp, slick stones as she lifted her skirt and picked up her pace. She fixed her gaze on the place where the far walkway should be, listening intently…

She hopped up onto the opposing curb, spun and faced the street.

She could not see the spot from whence she had just come. Biting the inside of her cheek, she turned to the left, and headed up the walk.

Each time she crossed a narrow street that turned left to abandon the main road, she counted it. She did not meet the eyes of any of the finely-dressed ladies or bowler-hatted gentlemen she passed, but set her mouth and walked quicker. Her skirts rustled with her swift movement, and she ignored the cold in her feet as she splashed through puddles.

Finally, She trotted out into the center of a little lane that wove off into the forest of buildings. She stared down the narrow passage, reflexively searched for a street sign…

Stopped herself, and attended to the lane again.

Darkness was falling, and shadows thickening. Ahead of her, a few street lamps burned like candles in a cavern, dripping measly pools of light down around their bases.

She started forward. Her footsteps rang louder here. She cast up and around her at what she could see of the clean facades of the houses—the neatly-painted doors, the trimmed windows...

Again, She counted. Knockers, this time. Squeezing the handle of her luggage.

…seven, eight, nine, ten…

Lamps glowed in several of the windows, like smudges against the frosty glass. Far ahead, she glimpsed a few other murky pedestrians, but none ventured down this way.

…twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three…

Her chest tensed, her pulse picking up as she quickened her pace…

She slowed, and stopped, letting out her tight breath in a cloud.

The twenty-sixth house, on her left.

The bricks distinguished it right away—deep red, almost brown—in sharp contrast to the pale houses on either side. This darker house seemed to resent even having to touch shoulders with the others—it was so severely narrow, and stretched up a full story taller than its neighbors. Ivy masked half its face. The fog prowled around the front steps of this house like an old, protective dog.

It bore one front window—tall, stately, and shuttered. To the left of it, the black door sullenly waited beneath a slight overhang. Three steps led up to this door, and before that, a walkway, flanked on either side by a tiny overgrown rectangular garden, reined in only by a black iron-wrought fence.

The windows of the second story, and likewise the third, had also been shuttered, and no light seeped out. Beyond, stretching up to the clouds, a square tower loomed. Upon first glance, the home seemed abandoned…

But with her next breath, She tasted the scent of cooking stew wafting from its chimney. And so she set her jaw, opened the front gate, and strode up the walkway. She felt the heat drain out of her face—climbed the stairs, reached up, grasped the brass knocker with her left hand and worked it sharply.

One. Two. Three.

Her fingers hung there for a moment, and then she dropped her arm. She listened, gaze anxiously flitting across the door, toward the front window…

Noises inside.

She swallowed, straightened up, and gripped her bag even harder.

The latch clacked. Hinges creaked. The door swung inward.

A tall, middle-aged man in a black butler’s suit stood just past the threshold. He had a thin mustache, oiled dark hair parted in the middle, and cold blue eyes. He lifted his chin, arched an eyebrow, and cast a glance up and down her whole form.

She swallowed again.

“Good day, madam,” he said—smooth, tenor and hard. “How may I help you?”

She took a breath. Her lips parted.

She closed her mouth. Her eyebrows drew together.

He frowned at her.

“Madam? How may I help you?”

She opened her mouth again. Shut it. Pain darted around in the back of her throat.

The butler’s mouth tightened.

“I’m sorry, we are not interested in any solicitations,” he told her, and began to shut the door.

Her heart banged against her breastbone. She lunged forward and shoved her toe against the bottom of the door. The door thudded against it.

“Madam!” the butler cried.

“Mr. Cutworth, what is going on?” came a woman’s voice from beyond him.

“Nothing at all, Mrs. Butterfield,” the butler replied curtly, twisting to see the woman inside, then turning back to give Her a glare. “I was just sending a button seller on her way.”

Her mouth opened again as her face heated. She clamped her jaw tight.

The next moment, a portly, gray-haired housekeeper with a frilled cap and flour-covered apron pulled the door aside and stepped up next to Mr. Cutworth. She had a stern mouth and flushed face, but bright brown eyes that captured Hers straightaway. Mrs. Butterfield gave Her a quick glance up and down—one that felt entirely different from Mr. Cutworth’s—and pulled the door open to its entirety.

“She is clearly not a button seller, Mr. Cutworth,” Mrs. Butterfield admonished sharply. “Has she told you her name?”

“Not a word,” Mr. Cutworth replied. “She seems entirely befuddled—must be a vagabond.”

“Has it occurred to you that she might have some defect, some impediment that prevents her from answering you?” Mrs. Butterfield inquired, putting a fist on her hip. “Perhaps she is deaf! Or perhaps she does not even speak English!”

Mr. Cutworth’s face colored.

“We have all manner and sort stopping by this door, Mr. Cutworth,” Mrs. Butterfield continued. “But in all my years, I have never happened upon a deaf, vagabond button-seller.”

The whole of Mr. Cutworth’s face turned completely red now. He straightened his waistcoat, and turned from the door.

“I will leave her in your capable hands, then,” he decided, and swiftly departed into the house. Mrs. Butterfield heaved a sigh, and turned back to Her.

“You’ll have to forgive us, Miss. We’ve newly hired a butler, and he isn’t accustomed to the sort of folk that usually arrive uninvited to Pendywick Place.”

In answer, She nodded quickly.

“Ah, so you can understand English!” Mrs. Butterfield smiled. “But you do have business with Mr. Collingwood, then?”

Again, She nodded quickly—even harder.

“Then come in, come in, before you catch your death.” Mrs. Butterfield stepped aside and beckoned to her. Quickly, She stepped across the threshold, and into the entryway. Mrs. Butterfield closed the door behind her with a resounding clap, then bustled past Her.

“Please wait right here while I announce you.”

She watched Mrs. Butterfield trundle across the pale beaten rug toward the other door at the far end. The housekeeper opened it, hurried through and shut it—

But it did not latch.

Biting her lip, She moved her bag to grasp it in both hands, and glanced around at the dark-wood entryway, lit by a single lamp to her left. On the right hand wall hung several long coats, three hats; and her attention caught on two very unusual walking sticks that waited next to the umbrella in the stand in the corner. They seemed to be made of rough-hewn blackthorn wood, polished till they shone.

Voices. Low, furtive.

Mrs. Butterfield’s first.

Then…

Another.

Holding her breath, She crept forward, hoping she would not make the floor creak beneath her shoes. She paused just a few feet from the door, leaning forward and listening…

“A woman? What kind of woman?”

A man’s voice. Like a rumble of thunder—yet precise as a scalpel.

“A young woman, sir,” came Mrs. Butterfield’s hushed answer. “I should say perhaps twenty-three.”

“Who is she?” that deep, penetrating voice again. A winter wind of a voice.

“She didn’t say, sir.”

“Didn’t or couldn’t?” he demanded.

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Well, what does she look like?” he pressed.

“Medium height; she’s wearing a red dress that’s in rather poor condition, a long black coat that was probably her mother’s, and a blue straw hat,” Mrs. Butterfield told him. “She’s got a pretty face, black eyes. Although I must say she looks a deal too pale, and a bit on the thin side. Very black hair, too. Only one piece of small luggage.”

“You don’t know her?”

“Never seen her before in my life, sir,” she said.

The man let out a labored sigh.

“Very well, then, show her in. I’ve had about enough of Milton for this half of my lifetime, anyhow.”

The door suddenly swung open. She jumped back as Mrs. Butterfield stuck her head around and smiled at her.

“Do come in.”

She nodded, trying not to shiver, and stepped past Mrs. Butterfield.

“May I present Mr. Basil Collingwood,” Mrs. Butterfield announced. Then, the housekeeper curtsied, and bustled off through a doorway to the left, leaving Her alone.

The dusty scent of books filled Her nose and throat. Frowning, she cast a glance through the well-lit, backward-L-shaped room. Off to her far right and nearly behind her, three armchairs crowded with pillows cornered a low, knick-knack-laden fireplace and mantel, forming a small, cluttered parlor; ahead of her and to the right stood a chestnut-colored piano buried beneath stacks of books and papers. Beyond that waited a desk laden with a shiny typewriter, glowing lamp, more books, several pens, a few portraits, and a pile of blank paper. All the walls round about were composed of shelves, crammed floor to ceiling with all sizes of books. Everything was lit by a chandelier that hung over the desk, as well as lamps on iron sconces that clung to the corners of the bookshelves.

Directly in front of her, a red-carpeted staircase marched straight up and away, then abruptly turned to the right and vanished into the next story. The wall this created before her also cradled a wide, thick bookshelf…

Her fingers slackened on her baggage, and she stared.

A young man sat on top of this bookshelf.

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