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In reply to: The Last Cruise of Helix 25
Helix 25 – Crusades in the Cruise & Unexpected Archives
Evie hadn’t planned to visit Seren Vega again so soon, but when Mandrake slinked into her quarters and sat squarely on her console, swishing his tail with intent, she took it as a sign.
“Alright, you smug little AI-assisted furball,” she muttered, rising from her chair. “What’s so urgent?”
Mandrake stretched leisurely, then padded toward the door, tail flicking. Evie sighed, grabbed her datapad, and followed.
He led her straight to Seren’s quarters—no surprise there. The dimly lit space was as chaotic as ever, layers of old records, scattered datapads, and bound volumes stacked in precarious towers. Seren barely looked up as Evie entered, used to these unannounced visits.
“Tell the cat to stop knocking over my books,” she said dryly. “It never ever listens.”
“Well it’s a cat, isn’t it?” Evie replied. “And he seems to have an agenda.”
Mandrake leaped onto one of the shelves, knocking loose a tattered, old-fashioned book. It thudded onto the floor, flipping open near Evie’s feet. She crouched, brushing dust from the cover. Blood and Oaths: A Romance of the Crusades by Liz Tattler.
She glanced at Seren. “Tattler again?”
Seren shrugged. “Romualdo must have left it here. He hoards her books like sacred texts.”
Evie turned the pages, pausing at an unusual passage. The prose was different—less florid than Liz’s usual ramblings, more… restrained.
A fragment of text had been underlined, a single note scribbled in the margin: Not fiction.
Evie found a spot where she could sit on the floor, and started to read eagerly.
“Blood and Oaths: A Romance of the Crusades — Chapter XII
Sidon, 1157 AD.Brother Edric knelt within the dim sanctuary, the cold stone pressing into his bones. The candlelight flickered across the vaulted ceilings, painting ghosts upon the walls. The voices of his ancestors whispered within him, their memories not his own, yet undeniable. He knew the placement of every fortification before his enemies built them. He spoke languages he had never learned.
He could not recall the first time it happened, only that it had begun after his initiation into the Order—after the ritual, the fasting, the bloodletting beneath the broken moon. The last one, probably folklore, but effective.
It came as a gift.
It was a curse.
His brothers called it divine providence. He called it a drowning. Each time he drew upon it, his sense of self blurred. His grandfather’s memories bled into his own, his thoughts weighted by decisions made a lifetime ago.
And now, as he rose, he knew with certainty that their mission to reclaim the stronghold would fail. He had seen it through the eyes of his ancestor, the soldier who stood at these gates seventy years prior.
‘You know things no man should know,’ his superior whispered that night. ‘Be cautious, Brother Edric, for knowledge begets temptation.’
And Edric knew, too, the greatest temptation was not power.
It was forgetting which thoughts were his own.
Which life was his own.
He had vowed to bear this burden alone. His order demanded celibacy, for the sealed secrets of State must never pass beyond those trained to wield it.
But Edric had broken that vow.
Somewhere, beyond these walls, there was a child who bore his blood. And if blood held memory…
He did not finish the thought. He could not bear to.”
Evie exhaled, staring at the page. “This isn’t just Tattler’s usual nonsense, is it?”
Seren shook her head distractedly.
“It reads like a first-hand account—filtered through Liz’s dramatics, of course. But the details…” She tapped the underlined section. “Someone wanted this remembered.”
Mandrake, still perched smugly above them, let out a satisfied mrrrow.
Evie sat back, a seed of realization sprouting in her mind. “If this was real, and if this technique survived somehow…”
Mandrake finished the thought for her. “Then Amara’s theory isn’t theory at all.”
Evie ran a hand through her hair, glancing at the cat than at Evie. “I hate it when Mandrake’s right.”
“Well what’s a witch without her cat, isn’t it?” Seren replied with a smile.
Mandrake only flicked his tail, his work here done.
In reply to: The Last Cruise of Helix 25
“Premeditated?” Evie voiced her thoughts.
TP looked at her sharply. “That would be the obvious conclusion to draw, my dear Evie. However,” he continued after a pregnant pause, “The conclusion may not be obvious at all.”
Evie rolled her eyes. “When in doubt, assume convolutions?”
A look of irritation clouded TP’s features momentarily, which he quickly arranged to a look of supercilious exasperation. “You assume,” he said condescendingly, “That Herbert WAS a human when he entered the drying chamber.”
Evie was confused. “Well he was a dessicated human when he was found in there. And he was a human when I last saw him.”
“And what do we know about Mr Herbert? Mr Ethan “Herbert”?”
Nonplussed, Evie replied that she didn’t know much about him, other than he was a late arrival and had appeared unexpectedly some years ago.
“Precisely.”
In reply to: The Last Cruise of Helix 25
The “do not enter, crime scene” sticker haphazardly printed, was not even sealing the door. Amateur job, but of course, this was to be expected when such murder event had not been seen in a generation.
She entered surrepticiously, the door to the drying chamber slid shut with a hiss behind her, muffling the last of the frantic voices outside. Evie exhaled. She needed a moment. Just her, the crime scene, and—
A flicker of light.
“Ah-ha!” Trevor Pee Marshall, aka TP, materialized beside her, adjusting his holographic lapels with exaggerated precision. “What we have here, dear Evie, is a classic case of les morts très mystérieux.” His mustache twitched. “Or as my good friend Clouseau would say—‘Zis does not add up!’”
Evie rolled her eyes. “Less theatrics, more analysis, TP.”
Despite the few glitches, she was proud and eager to take her invention to a real-life trial run. Combining all the brilliant minds of enquêteur Jacques Clouseau, as well as the flair of Marshall Pee Stoll from the beloved Peaslanders children stories, TP was the help they needed to solve this.
“Ahem.” TP straightened, flickering momentarily before reappearing near the machine, peering inside with a magnifying glass he absolutely didn’t need.
Evie pulled up the logs. The AI had flagged the event—drying cycle activated at 0200 hours. Duration: excessive. But no shutdown? That was impossible.
TP let out a thoughtful “hmm.” Then, with the gravitas of a seasoned investigator, he declared, “Madame, I detect a most peculiar discrepancy.”
Evie looked up. “Go on.”
TP pivoted dramatically. “The AI should have stopped the cycle, yes? But what if… it never saw a problem?”
Evie frowned. That wasn’t how safety protocols worked. Unless—
She tapped rapidly through the logs. Her stomach dropped.
The system hadn’t flagged a human inside at all.
Someone had altered the ship’s perception of Mr. Herbert before he ever stepped into the machine.
Evie’s pulse quickened. This wasn’t just murder.
It was premeditated.
In reply to: The Last Cruise of Helix 25
It was quite dark by the time Molly and Tundra entered the woods but the firelight flickered through the trees, guiding them to the clearing. Now that the meeting with the strangers was close, the initial excitement gave way to trepidition, particularly for Molly. Despite not seeing other people for years, the old world caution about strangers resurfaced.
“Slow down, Tundra, we don’t want to shock them. They may be hostile,” whispered Molly.
“Hostile? What does that mean?” asked Tundra, who had never come into contact with other people.
Molly looked at her in amazement. The dear innocent poppet has never known the fear of strangers in dark woods! And not once did I think to appreciate that, Molly marvelled silently.
“Never mind that now. Come on.” No need to fill the childs head with fear. “Haloooo! We come in peace!” Molly shouted. “Haloooo! We’re coming in pieces!” echoed Tundra, who was unfamiliar with the word peace, not having had any call the use the word in any conversation thus far.
There was a pregnant silence and then an animated burble of exclamations from the clearing, and then silence again as Molly and Tundra emerged from the darkness.
Dear god, there are so many of them. Molly’s initial reaction was overwhelm. She tried to look at them all individually and it made her head swim. She wondered for a moment if it would be rude to just turn around and leave. But no, it was dark already, and the rapturous excitement on Tundra’s face put paid to that idea.
Gregor was the first to move forward. His leathery old face creased in smiles, he offered his hand to Molly.
In reply to: Quintessence: Reversing the Fifth
Matteo — December 2022
Juliette leaned in, her phone screen glowing faintly between them. “Come on, pick something. It’s supposed to know everything—or at least sound like it does.”
Juliette was the one who’d introduced him to the app the whole world was abuzz talking about. MeowGPT.
At the New Year’s eve family dinner at Juliette’s parents, the whole house was alive with her sisters, nephews, and cousins. She entered a discussion with one of the kids, and they all seemed to know well about it. It was fun to see the adults were oblivious, himself included. He liked it about Juliette that she had such insatiable curiosity.
“It’s a life-changer, you know” she’d said “There’ll be a time, we won’t know about how we did without it. The kids born now will not know a world without it. Look, I’m sure my nephews are already cheating at their exams with it, or finding new ways to learn…”
“New ways to learn, that sounds like a mirage…. Bit of a drastic view to think we won’t live without; I’d like to think like with the mobile phones, we can still choose to live without.”
“And lose your way all the time with worn-out paper maps instead of GPS? That’s a grandpa mindset darling! I can see quite a few reasons not to choose!” she laughed.
“Anyway, we’ll see. What would you like to know about? A crazy recipe to grow hair? A fancy trip to a little known place? Write a technical instruction in the style of Elizabeth Tattler?”“Let me see…”
Matteo smirked, swirling the last sip of crémant in his glass. The lively discussions of Juliette’s family around them made the moment feel oddly private. “Alright, let’s try something practical. How about early signs of Alzheimer’s? You know, for Ma.”
Juliette’s smile softened as she tapped the query into the app. Matteo watched, half curious, half detached.
The app processed for a moment before responding in its overly chipper tone:
“Early signs of Alzheimer’s can include memory loss, difficulty planning or solving problems, and confusion with time or place. For personalized insights, understanding specific triggers, like stress or diet, can help manage early symptoms.”Matteo frowned. “That’s… general. I thought it was supposed to be revolutionary?”
“Wait for it,” Juliette said, tapping again, her tone teasing. “What if we ask it about long-term memory triggers? Something for nostalgia. Your Ma’s been into her old photos, right?”
The app spun its virtual gears and spat out a more detailed suggestion.
“Consider discussing familiar stories, music, or scents. Interestingly, recent studies on Alzheimer’s patients show a strong response to tactile memories. For example, one groundbreaking case involved genetic ancestry research coupled with personalized sensory cues.Juliette tilted her head, reading the screen aloud. “Huh, look at this—Dr. Elara V., a retired physicist, designed a patented method combining ancestral genetic research with soundwaves sensory stimuli to enhance attention and preserve memory function. Her work has been cited in connection with several studies on Alzheimer’s.”
“Elara?” Matteo’s brow furrowed. “Uncommon name… Where have I heard it before?”
Juliette shrugged. “Says here she retired to Tuscany after the pandemic. Fancy that.” She tapped the screen again, scrolling. “Apparently, she was a physicist with some quirky ideas. Had a side hustle on patents, one of which actually turned out useful. Something about genetic resonance? Sounds like a sci-fi movie.”
Matteo stared at the screen, a strange feeling tugging at him. “Genetic resonance…? It’s like these apps read your mind, huh? Do they just make this stuff up?”
Juliette laughed, nudging him. “Maybe! The system is far from foolproof, it may just have blurted out a completely imagined story, although it’s probably got it from somewhere on the internet. You better do your fact-checking. This woman would have published papers back when we were kids, and now the AI’s connecting dots.”
The name lingered with him, though. Elara. It felt distant yet oddly familiar, like the shadow of a memory just out of reach.
“You think she’s got more work like that?” he asked, more to himself than to Juliette.
Juliette handed him the phone. “You’re the one with the questions. Go ahead.”
Matteo hesitated before typing, almost without thinking: Elara Tuscany memory research.
The app processed again, and the next response was less clinical, more anecdotal.
“Elara V., known for her unconventional methods, retired to Tuscany where she invested in rural revitalization. A small village farmhouse became her retreat, and she occasionally supported artistic projects. Her most cited breakthrough involved pairing sensory stimuli with genetic lineage insights to enhance memory preservation.”Matteo tilted the phone towards Juliette. “She supports artists? Sounds like a soft spot for the dreamers.”
“Maybe she’s your type,” Juliette teased, grinning.
Matteo laughed, shaking his head. “Sure, if she wasn’t old enough to be my mother.”
The conversation shifted, but Matteo couldn’t shake the feeling the name had stirred. As Juliette’s family called them back to the table, he pocketed his phone, a strange warmth lingering—part curiosity, part recognition.
To think that months before, all that technologie to connect dots together didn’t exist. People would spend years of research, now accessible in a matter of seconds.
Later that night, as they were waiting for the new year countdown, he found himself wondering: What kind of person would spend their retirement investing in forgotten villages and forgotten dreams? Someone who believed in second chances, maybe. Someone who, like him, was drawn to the idea of piecing together a life from scattered connections.
In reply to: Quintessence: Reversing the Fifth
Darius: Christmas 2022
Darius was expecting some cold snap, landing in Paris, but the weather was rather pleasant this time of the year.
It was the kind of day that begged for aimless wandering, but Darius had an appointment he couldn’t avoid—or so he told himself. His plane had been late, and looking at the time he would arrive at the apartment, he was already feeling quite drained. The streets were lively, tourists and locals intermingling dreamingly under strings of festive lights spread out over the boulevards. He listlessly took some snapshot videos —fleeting ideas, backgrounds for his channel.
The wellness channel had not done very well to be honest, and he was struggling with keeping up with the community he had drawn to himself. Most of the latest posts had drawn the usual encouragements and likes, but there were also the growing background chatter, gossiping he couldn’t be bothered to rein in — he was no guru, but it still took its toll, and he could feel it required more energy to be in this mode that he’d liked to.
His patrons had been kind, for a few years now, indulging his flights of fancy, funding his trips, introducing him to influencers. Seeing how little progress he’d made, he was starting to wonder if he should have paid more attention to the background chatter. Monsieur Renard had always taken a keen interest in his travels, looking for places to expand his promoter schemes of co-housing under the guide of low investment into conscious living spaces, or something well-marketed by Eloïse. The crude reality was starting to stare at his face. He wasn’t sure how long he could keep up pretending they were his friends.
By the time he reached the apartment, in a quiet street adjacent to rue Saint Dominique, nestled in 7th arrondissement with its well-kept façades, he was no longer simply fashionably late.
Without even the time to say his name, the door buzz clicked open, leading him to the old staircase. The apartment door opened before he could knock. There was a crackling tension hanging in the air even before Renard’s face appeared—his rotund face reddened by an annoyance he was poorly hiding beneath a polished exterior. He seemed far away from the guarded and meticulous man that Darius once knew.
“You’re late,” Renard said brusquely, stepping aside to let Darius in. The man was dressed impeccably, as always, but there was a sharpness to his movements.
Inside, the apartment was its usual display of cultivated sophistication—mid-century furniture, muted tones, and artful clutter that screamed effortless wealth. Eloïse sat on the couch, her legs crossed, a glass of wine poised delicately in her hand. She didn’t look up as Darius entered.
“Sorry,” Darius muttered, setting down his bag. “Flight delay.”
Renard waved it off impatiently, already pacing the room. “Do you know where Lucien is?” he asked abruptly, his gaze slicing toward Darius.
The question caught him off guard. “Lucien?” Darius echoed. “No. Why?”
Renard let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Why? Because he owes me. He owes us. And he’s gone off the grid like some bloody enfant terrible who thinks the rules don’t apply to him.”
Darius hesitated. “I haven’t seen him in months,” he said carefully.
Renard stopped pacing, fixing him with a hard look. “Are you sure about that? You two were close, weren’t you? Don’t tell me you’re covering for him.”
“I’m not,” Darius said firmly, though the accusation sent a ripple of anger through him.
Renard snorted, turning away. “Typical. All you dreamers are the same—full of ideas but no follow-through. And when things fall apart, you scatter like rats, leaving the rest of us to clean up the mess.”
Darius stiffened. “I didn’t come here to be insulted,” he said, his voice a steady growl.
“Then why did you come, Darius?” Renard shot back, his tone cutting. “To float on someone else’s dime a little longer? To pretend you’re above all this while you leech off people who actually make things happen?”
The words hit like a slap. Darius glanced at Eloïse, expecting her to interject, to soften the blow. But she remained silent, her gaze fixed on her glass as if it held all the answers.
For the first time, he saw her clearly—not as a confidante or a muse, but as someone who had always been one step removed, always watching, always using.
“I think I’ve had enough,” Darius said finally, his voice calm despite the storm brewing inside him. “I think I’ve had enough for a long time.”
Renard turned, his expression a mix of incredulity and disdain. “Enough? You think you can walk away from this? From us?”
“Yes, I can.” Darius said simply, grabbing his bag.
“You’ll never make it on your own,” Renard called after him, his voice dripping with scorn.
Darius paused at the door, glancing back at Eloïse one last time. “I’ll take my chances,” he said, and then slammed the door.
The evening air was like a balm, open and soft unlike the claustrophobic tension of the apartment. Darius walked aimlessly at first, his thoughts caught between flares of wounded pride and muted anxiety, but as he walked and walked, it soon turned into a return of confidence, slow and steady.
His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he pulled it out to see a familiar name. It was a couple he knew from the south of France, friends he hadn’t spoken to in months. He answered, their warm voices immediately lifting his spirits.
“Darius!” one of them said. “What are you doing for Christmas? You should come down to stay with us. We’ve finally moved to a bigger space—and you owe us a visit.”
Darius smiled, the weight of Renard’s words falling away. “You know what? That sounds perfect.”
As he hung up, he looked up at the Parisian skyline, Darius wished he’d had the courage to take that step into the unknown a long time ago. Wherever Lucien was, he felt suddenly closer to him —as if inspired by his friend’s bold move away from this malicious web of influence.
In reply to: Quintessence: Reversing the Fifth
March 2024
The phone buzzed on the table as Lucien pulled on his scarf, preparing to leave for the private class he had scheduled at his atelier. He glanced at the screen and froze. His father’s name glared back at him.
He hesitated. He knew why the man called; he knew how it would go, but he couldn’t resolve to cut that link. With a sharp breath he swiped to answer.
“Lucien”, his father began, his tone already full of annoyance. “Why didn’t you take the job with Bernard’s firm? He told me everything went well in the interview. They were ready to hire you back.”
As always, no hello, no question about his health or anything personal.
“I didn’t want it”, Lucien said, his voice calm only on the surface.
“It’s a solid career, Lucien. Architecture isn’t some fleeting whim. When your mother died, you quit your position at the firm, and got involved with those friends of yours. I said nothing for a while. I thought it was a phase, that it wouldn’t last. And I was right, it didn’t. I don’t understand why you refuse to go back to a proper life.”
“I already told you, it’s not what I want. I’ve made my decision.”
Lucien’s father sighed. “Not what you want? What exactly do you want, son? To keep scraping by with these so-called art projects? Giving private classes to kids who’ll never make a career out of it? That’s not a proper life?”
Lucien clenched his jaw, gripping his scarf. “Well, it’s my life. And my decisions.”
“Your decisions? To waste the potential you’ve been given? You have talent for real work—work that could leave a mark. Architecture is lasting. What you are doing now? It’s nothing. It’s just… air.”
Lucien swallowed hard. “It’s mine, Dad. Even if you don’t understand it.”
A pause followed. Lucien heard his father speak to someone else, then back to him. “I have to go”, he said, his tone back to professional. “A meeting. But we’re not finished.”
“We’re never finished”, Lucien muttered as the line went dead.
Lucien adjusted the light over his student’s drawing table, tilting the lamp slightly to cast a softer glow on his drawing. The young man—in his twenties—was focused, his pencil moving steadily as he worked on the folds of a draped fabric pinned to the wall. The lines were strong, the composition thoughtful, but there was still something missing—a certain fluidity, a touch of life.
“You’re close,” Lucien said, leaning slightly over the boy’s shoulder. He gestured toward the edge of the fabric where the shadows deepened. “But look here. The transition between the shadow and the light—it’s too harsh. You want it to feel like a whisper, not a line.”
The student glanced at him, nodding. Lucien took a pencil and demonstrated on a blank corner of the canvas, his movements deliberate but featherlight. “Blend it like this,” he said, softening the edge into a gradient. “See? The shadow becomes part of the light, like it’s breathing.”
The student’s brow furrowed in concentration as he mimicked the movement, his hand steady but unsure. Lucien smiled faintly, watching as the harsh line dissolved into something more organic. “There. Much better.”
The boy glanced up, his face brightening. “Thanks. It’s hard to see those details when you’re in it.”
Lucien nodded, stepping back. “That’s the trick. You have to step away sometimes. Look at it like you’re seeing it for the first time.”
He watched as the student adjusted his work, a flicker of satisfaction softening the lingering weight of his father’s morning call. Guiding someone else, helping them see their own potential—it was the kind of genuine care and encouragement he had always craved but never received.
When Éloïse and Monsieur Renard appeared in his life years ago, their honeyed words and effusive praise seduced him. They had marveled at his talent, his ideas. They offered to help with the shared project in the Drôme. He and his friends hadn’t realized the couple’s flattery came with strings, that their praise was a net meant to entangle them, not make them succeed.
The studio door creaked open, snapping him back to reality. Lucien tensed as Monsieur Renard entered, his polished shoes clicking against the wooden floor. His sharp eyes scanned the room before landing on the student’s work.
“What have we here?” He asked, his voice bordering on disdain.
Lucien moved in between Renard and the boy, as if to protect him. His posture stiff. “A study”, he said curtly.
Renard examined the boy’s sketch for a moment. He pulled out a sleek card from his pocket and tossed it onto the drawing table without looking at the student. “Call me when you’ve improved”, he said flatly. “We might have work for you.”
The student hesitated only briefly. Glancing at Lucien, he gathered his things in silence. A moment later, the door closed behind the young man. The card remained on the table, untouched.
Renard let out a faint snort, brushing a speck of dust from his jacket. He moved to Lucien’s drawing table where a series of sketches were scattered. “What are these?” he asked. “Another one of your indulgences?”
“It’s personal”, he said, his voice low.
Renard snorted softly, shaking his head. “You’re wasting your time, Lucien. Do as you’re asked. That’s what you’re good at, copying others’ work.”
Lucien gritted his teeth but said nothing. Renard reached into his jacket and handed Lucien a folded sheet of paper. “Eloïse’s new request. We expect fast quality. What about the previous one?”
Lucien nodded towards the covered stack of canvases near the wall. “Done.”
“Good. They’ll come tomorrow and take the lot.”
Renard started to leave but paused, his hand on the doorframe. He said without looking back: “And don’t start dreaming about becoming your own person, Lucien. You remember what happened to the last one who wanted out, don’t you?” The man stepped out, the sound of his steps echoing through the studio.
Lucien stared at the door long after it had closed. The sketches on his table caught his eyes—a labyrinth of twisted roads, fragmented landscapes, and faint, familiar faces. They were his prayers, his invocation to the gods, drawn over and over again as though the repetition might force a way out of the dark hold Renard and Éloïse had over his life.
He had told his father this morning that he had chosen his life, but standing here, he couldn’t lie to himself. His decisions hadn’t been fully his own these last few years. At the time, he even believed he could protect his friends by agreeing to the couple’s terms, taking the burden onto himself. But instead of shielding them, he had only fractured their friendship and trapped himself.
Lucien followed the lines of one of the sketches absently, his fingers smudging the charcoal. He couldn’t shake off the feeling that something was missing. Or someone. Yes, an unfathomable sense that someone else had to be part of this, though he couldn’t yet place who. Whoever it was, they felt like a thread waiting to tie them all together again.
He knew what he needed to do to bring them back together. To draw it where it all began, where they had dreamed together. Avignon.In reply to: Quintessence: Reversing the Fifth
At the Café
The Sarah Bernardt Café shimmered under a pale grey November sky a busy last Saturday of the “Black Week”. Golden lights spilled onto cobblestones slick with rain, and the air buzzed with the din of a city alive in the moment. Inside, the crowd pressed together, laughing, arguing, living. And in a corner table by the fogged-up window, old friends were about to quietly converged, coming to a long overdue reunion.
Lucien was the first to arrive, dragging a weathered suitcase behind him. Its wheels rattled unevenly on the cobblestones, a sound he hated. His dark curls, damp from the rain, clung to his forehead, and his scarf, streaked with old paint, hung loose around his neck. He folded himself into a corner chair, his suitcase tucked awkwardly beside him. When the server approached, Lucien waved him off with a distracted shake of his head and opened a battered sketchbook.
The next arrival was Elara. She entered briskly, shaking rain from her short gray-streaked hair, her eyes scanning the room as though searching for anomalies. A small roller bag trailed behind her, pristine and black, a sharp contrast to Lucien’s worn luggage. She stopped at the table and tilted her head.
“Still brooding?” she asked, pulling off her coat and folding it neatly over the back of a chair.
“Still talking?” Lucien didn’t look up, his pencil scratching faint lines across the page.
Elara smiled faintly. “Two minutes in, and you’re already immortalizing us? You know I hate being drawn.”
“You hate being caught off guard,” Lucien murmured. “But I never get your nose wrong.”
She laughed, the sound light but brief, and sank into her seat, placing her bag carefully beside her.
The door swung open again, and Darius entered, shaking the rain from his jacket. His presence seemed to fill the room immediately. He strode toward the table, a leather duffel slung over one shoulder and a well-worn travel pouch clutched in his hand. His boots clacked against the café’s tile floor, his movements easy, confident.
“Did you walk here?” Elara asked as he dropped his things with a thud and pulled out a chair.
“Ran into someone on the way,” he said, settling back. “Some guy selling maps. Got this one for ten euros—worth every cent.” He waved a yellowed scrap of paper that looked more fiction than cartography.
Lucien snorted. “Still paying for strangers’ stories, I see.”
“The good ones aren’t free.” Darius grinned and leaned back in his chair, propping one boot against the table leg.
The final arrival was Amei. Her entrance was quieter but no less noticeable. She unwound her scarf slowly, her layered clothing a mix of textures and colors that seemed to absorb the café’s golden light. A tote bag rested over her shoulder, bulging with what could have been books, or journals, or stories yet untold.
“You’re late,” Darius said, but his voice carried no accusation.
“Right on time,” Amei replied, lowering herself into the last chair. “You’re all just early.”
Her gaze swept across them, lingering on the bags piled at their feet. “I see I’m not the only one who came a long way.”
“Not all of us live in Paris,” Elara said, with a glance at Lucien.
“Only some of us make better life choices,” Lucien replied dryly.
The comment drew laughter—a tentative sound that loosened the air between them, thick as it was with five years of absence.
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
“You! I never expected to see you here!” What was Thomas Cromwell doing in the colosseum in the year 1507? “Oh, of course, you were in Italy…what on earth are you wearing?” Truella asked, in some confusion. Never had she seen such an elaborate codpiece, and nobody else was wearing one.
He took his feathered cap off and ran a hand through his hair. “I’ve been to the very gates of purgatory trying to get back to Austin Friars, I unintentionally left Malove there.”
“In what year?” Truella was aghast. “How long has she been there? Who is she with? Is she safe?”
“There is no time to lose, how do I make this ~ this ~ thing go where and when I want?”
“Never mind that now, you had better come with us,” Trella was looking around to see where the others were. “We’ll all have to go. What’s the weather like? What are we going to do about clothes?”
“Clothes?” asked Jeezel, sneaking up behind them through some exotic foreign bushes, “Just you leave that to me! I’ve already found a marvellous museum costume shop. Did you get that codpiece there?” she said to Cromwell. ” I saw one in there similar to that, but with less padding.”
“Here you are,” announced Frella, suddenly appearing out of nowhere with her arms draped in costumes. “No time for shopping, so I did a quick spell.”
Why didn’t I think of just doing a spell? Truella wondered, not for the first time.
You never do was the unspoken reply that entered the scene with the appearance of Eris, armed with the approriate spells. “Right then. Here we go.”
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
After everyone got the program for the six rituals, they dispersed. Jeezel observed groups reform and the whereabouts of people. Eris walked alone toward the dark corridors. Truella, Sandra and Sassafras went to the gardens. Rufus followed shortly after, his dark moody eyes showing intense reflections. Jeezel noticed that Bartolo from the convent had been observing the mortician and hurried to catch up with him. Mother Lorena stood as stern as ever in the center of the lobby. She kept cupping her hands around her ears to check if her earpieces were working. Which they weren’t from the irritated look on her face. Silas was in an animated discussion with Austreberthe and the remaining nuns were laughing heartily and running around as if they had overindulged in Sister Sassafras’ hallucinogenic mushroom canapés.
Jeezel decided to go back to the lounge and explore the antiques, maybe see if there were hidden passageways behind those tapestries. She found Garrett waiting for her in the corridor as if he knew what she intended to do. His deep blue eyes seemed to embrace her whole silhouette in a myriad of unspoken emotions, and when they settle on her emerald green eyes, a subtle grin showed his appreciation.
“Don’t look back,” he said, his voice a deep velvet baritone. “Old Silas and Austreberthe are looking at us with a very disapproving look.”
Jeezel couldn’t help but chuckle softly. “And what if they do? We’re not doing anything wrong.”
Garrett’s grin widened. He took a step closer, the scent of his cologne– a tantalizing mix of cedarwood and bergamot– mingling with the faint aroma of her own enchanting perfume.
“You intrigue me, Jeezel. More than the rituals, more than any relic or spell.”
Jeezel laughed heartily. Don’t they say keep your enemy close? I have questions for him. And I wouldn’t mind the company while I’m exploring the area? she thought.
“I was about to check for secret passages in the old lounge,” she said. “Would you join me?”
She let him take her hand and guide her toward the lounge. As they entered the heavy scent of aged wood and old books greeted them. Jeezel’s eyes darted to the tapestries lining the walls, each depicting scenes of ancient rituals and forgotten histories.
“Where do you think we should start?” Garrett asked, his deep voice barely above a whisper, adding to the mysterious ambiance of the room.
Jeezel tilted her head, considering the possibilities. “That one,” she said, pointing to a particularly intricate tapestry depicting a moonlit garden. “It looks like it could hide something.” She reached out to the fabric and pulled it aside, revealing a wooden door. She tensed when she noticed lingering traces of cedarwood and bergamot. “Or someone,” she added, turning toward him. “You’ve been here recently, have you not?”
“Direct as ever. Very well. I’m here to protect and help you. You need to be careful with Silas. He has hidden motives.”
Jeezel narrowed her eyes. “And why should I trust you?”
Garrett pulled out his crimson handkerchief from his pocket, revealing a symbol embroidered in gold. Her eyes widened as identical to the one on the key Malové had given her.
“How did you get that?” she asked.
“Malové entrusted me with this,” Garret explained, “to show her chosen allies. I was told to seek you out and offer you my assistance. This symbol matches the one on your key, doesn’t it?”
Jeezel felt the weight of the key in her purse. She hadn’t shown it to anyone, not even to her friends. She felt even more confused than before. It was possible that Silas would try to divert her attention from him if he was against the merger. And what better way to do than alert her to unknown enemies. The fact that Garrett knew about the key just added a layer of complexity to the situation, but also a layer of excitement. She wondered what game was being played here, and who were the true players.
“Alright, Garrett,” she said, her voice steadying as she added, “I’ll hear you out. But if you’re lying, you’ll regret it.”
He nodded. “Faire enough. Silas isn’t just interested in the failure of the merger; he’s got his own agenda. Something to do with ancient punic artifacts and power that could rival even the Crimson Opus. And he’s not the only one. There are some ancient Punic families that are looking for the same things.”
Jeezel’s heart skipped a beat. If Silas was after the same kind of power, it could jeopardize everything—the merger, her mission, and possibly the balance of power in their world. Jeezle felt she was in way over her head. She had to breathe and connect to her inner Queen’s innate knowledge in order to slide into her role of leader.
“Then, I accept your assistance,” she conceded with a slight node. “But this doesn’t mean I trust you, Garrett. You’ll have to prove your loyalty.”
Garrett folded the handkerchief back into his pocket. “I wouldn’t expect anything less. For now, let’s just say our interests align. And if we work together, we might just come out of this with everything we need—and more.”
“Then show me where this hidden door lead!”
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
An unexpected result (or was it an intentional one?) of the octobus ride was a profound appreciation for the arrival at the destination. Not one of the witches had been truly looking forward to the event, but when they entered the building they were deeply grateful for the smooth hard floors and walls and sharp minimalism, if that is what the sparse clean decor was called.
“This place is sorely in need of some steampunk hats,” remarked Truella. “And some Victorian clothes.”
“Beats the hell out of that gross octobus, though,” Jezeel said, who was swanning grandly around the large entrance foyer, her boots making a neat thud rather than a revolting sucking sound.
“I rather like it,” said Frella, “Steampunk hats wouldn’t fit in here at all. Are you sure that party is being held here?” For a moment, she felt a ray of hope. She was feeling that it might be possible to remain unnoticed and unbothered in the vast clean space if she sat somewhere looking serenely vacant and unapproachable.
Spotting the shiny black grand piano in the corner, Jezeel glided majestically over to it and hopped onto the back of it, striking a glamourous pose. Naturally everyone took flattering photos of her as was expected.
Eris had rushed off to find a lavatory, and eventually emerged holding a strange awkward bundle.
“What on earth is that and where did you find it?” Frella noticed the look of alarm on Eris’s face. Truella was still taking photos of Jez from various angles, much to Jezreel’s delight.
“What does it bloody look like!” Eris said in an exasperated tone, “It’s a baby, someone left it in the loo! Go and ask at the desk, find out who lost a baby. I think it’s nappy needs changing.”
Frella went off to ask, returning shortly with surprising news. “There is nobody checked in here with a baby, Eris. Nobody knows whose it is. Here, give it to me, the poor thing.”
Eris handed over the smelly bundle gratefully.
I can stay in my room with this baby, Frella thought, It will be the perfect excuse not to go to the party.
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
“I’m so glad you’re here!” Jezeel rushed over as they entered The Escarabajo Pelotero cafe they had arranged to meet in. Leading them to a corner table, she added “It’s escalating quickly, we don’t have time for any difficult spells, we’re going to have to resort to….”
“Resort to what?” asked Frella with a worried frown.
“Well…. er, resort to faster more efficient means than magic spells, I guess. Physically restraining her until we can sort something out. If we can catch her!”
“Whatever do you mean, catch her? Look Jez, just calm down and tell us what’s happened. And your wig’s slipped a bit, poppet, that’s it, bit more to the right, there you go.”
“Eris has gone off in a red racing car.”
“What, with the elephant head? Oh, was it one without a top? I was wondering how she’d have got that head inside the car!”
“I think you’re missing the point, Truella,” Frella said. “As usual.”
Jezeel explained how Eris had overheard a group of distinguished looking executive type men chatting in a restaurant about the race track they’d all been on that afternoon, and decided she wanted to do it, and there was no talking her out of it. With a sense of foreboding Jezeel had followed her there and witnessed Eris drive the red racing car like a maniac, overtaking every other driver and racing past the finishing line and beyond, into the car park outside and off up the motorway in the direction of Segovia.
“Let’s order breakfast,” suggested Frella. “We don’t even know where she’s going.”
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
Jeezel was enjoying a glass of champagne, enveloped by mother of pearl foam in a bathtub that was more like a swimming pool for a siren. Her emerald eyes were looking pensively at the reflections on the golden tiles. She was humming along a playlist carefully selected to help her relax and assimilate all the changes in her life.
Despite the fiasco in Brasil, Malove has been keeping them busy with more projects to come. Jeezel had to come up with new workshops for new recruits with the secret purpose of making witchcraft more accepted by the masses. Then, there were those secret missions for which Frigella and herself also had to procure rare and hard to find ingredients. Of course, all that, she could easily handle. Hadn’t she always managed to get back up on her feet every time she trampled on her train during her first beauty contest.
But now, there was Joe. Jeezel took a sip of champagne.
When she found her cottage, the bathroom was in a state not even a mother could love. Numerous cracks running wild like the worst kind of pantyhose mishap, and humidity creeping in like an unwelcome suitor at a drag ball.
When she put up a picture on Flick Flock, it was like blowing the mythic Cornucopia. Her fans came through like the chorus of a drag space opera. Offers poured in, tips, tricks and contacts. But one offer stood out, a brother of a fan near Limerick with hands skilled in construction.
If Jeezel’s got a heart as big as her hair, she didn’t let just anyone past the sequin curtains. Despite her hesitation to let a stranger wander through her abode, even one vouched for by a fan, she also knew when to delegate. With a few clicks of her carefully crafted nails on her phone screen and an appointment was decided. And Joe entered into her life.
He was more an Anthony Tomkin than her usual Brad Pitt or Chris Hemsworth type. But still she was intrigued. As usual, Lumina warned her not to let her artichoke heart be ruffled again. But, thought Jeezel, she was not a child anymore, she was a powerful witch. She gulped the last trace of champagne and rose, emerging from the foam like a newborn Venus.
What could the man possibly do to her that she couldn’t transmute into gold?
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
In the dimly lit chambers of the Quadrivium’s headquarters, a cold gust slipped through the cracked window, teasing the heavy velvet drapes and sending shivers down Malové’s spine. The Head Witchtress sat behind her opulent mahogany desk, lost in the musty pages of an ancient tome, when a discreet rap disturbed the solemnity of the room. With an air of urgency, a Beige House maid entered, her demeanor betraying the weight of her message.
“Mistress Malové,” she began, her voice a mere whisper, “I bear dire tidings.”
Malové arched an eyebrow. “Speak plainly, my dear.”
The spy-maid straightened, her gaze unwavering. “Lump, the ex-president, plots a resurrection across the pond. The Coven cannot allow it.”
A sly grin danced upon Malové’s lips as she pondered the revelation. “Indeed, we cannot.”
After a pregnant pause, she continued, her voice dripping with intrigue. “And perhaps, I have just the antidote.”
Rising from her seat, Malové cast a commanding presence upon the room. “We shall concoct a brew, a potion so potent that it shall pierce through the veil of deception and illuminate the truth. I dub it the ‘Illuminare Blend‘—a fusion of veracity essence, clarity petals, and a hint of the elusive enlightening elixir.”
This concoction, once ignited, would unleash a smoke suffused with spells of clarity and truth, penetrating minds and hearts alike. Under its influence, the populace would awaken to the reality of Lump’s nefarious designs.
“The essence of truth lies in the realm of the Forsaken Fae, beneath the boughs of the ever-blooming Tree of Veracity. Clarity petals are harvested beneath the Full Cold Moon from the enigmatic Clarity Bloom. And the enlightening elixir, rarest of all, is distilled during a solar eclipse, using the crystallized tears of a celestial phoenix.”
Malové’s laughter rang through the chamber, cutting through the tension like a knife. “Are we now in a Barry Otter novel? What do you expect me to say next? ‘This is the mission. We must procure these ingredients. The fate of the nation hangs in the balance. There is no room for failure’?”
The Beige House maid stood, bewildered by the abrupt shift in tone.
Chuckling, Malové waved a dismissive hand. “Fear not, my dear. Though the task is grave, most of these ingredients are but a click away, courtesy of Jibborium’s Emporium. They have yet to disappoint.”
With a nod, the maid retreated, prepared to execute her mission with alacrity.
“Wait,” Malové called after her. “You may need a prescription for some of these.” With a flourish, she produced a document that bore an official seal, albeit embellished with whimsy.
“Contact me when you have procured them. I shall dispatch my finest witches to assist with the incantations. Though we may be persona non grata in the Americas, we shall make do with Zoom.”
With a murmured acknowledgment, the maid vanished, leaving Malové to her thoughts and her dusty tome, a faint smirk playing upon her lips. “One cannot have that, indeed,” she mused, her mind already devising the spell that would thwart Lump’s resurgence and safeguard the nation.
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
With the carnival in full swing, Truella was finding it hard to focus on everything that was going on. Was this mission more chaotic than usual, or did it seem that way because she wasn’t giving it her full attention? She hadn’t thought too much about Jezeel not closing the portal. She was having enough trouble stabilizing her own bilocation spell.
Where was Frigella when she needed her? And what was going on with that Cedric guy? Truella decided to go in search of her. Frigella was always good at explaining and clarifying things that she hadn’t been paying attention to.
Outside on the pavement, Truella paused to light a cigarette. The street were a cocophany of raucus banter and gay shreiks, a riot of colour and imagination and Truella stood rapt at the sights and sounds. Such a contrast from her quiet life at home in the garden with only ghosts for company. In a way Truella was glad that Roger was still missing with the pack of monkeys, rather than leaving him alone at home.
“Aye, look at all them monkey costumes, our Mavis, they’m really good int they, look just like real monkeys,” a chubby Englishwoman in a garish pink outfit said, passing by where Truella was standing.
“That’s because they ARE real monkeys, ya daft cow,” retorted her companion. “And they’re all following that big fella.”
“Ooh, that big burly chap?” piped up the third woman in the group. “I clocked him right off, come on girls, let’s go after the big boy.”
“Ooh, Sha, what are you like, ya tart.”
As the three women cackled and trotted off after the monkeys, Truella’s peaceful interlude came to an abrupt halt. What burly man with a pack of monkeys? Surely not, surely Roger and his monkeys hadn’t entered that portal that Jez forgot to close?
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
Truella had already left for that monkey hunt in the Mediterranean. Eris had to go back before nightfall, which was quite early at this time of year as she had chosen to live in such a remote place in the midst of a frozen forest. Jeezel only thought it romantic because of the icicles that would form on your eyelashes and brows, making you the perfect avatar for the Snow Queen musical. And Frigella… She said she was tired but from the sight of her aura, she undoubtedly was onto something fishy.
Jeezel looked at her dress. Once a divine creation, it has turned into a disaster. Irremediably stained with soot, it’s foul smell would make any dragon lose their appetite. She felt a mix of sadness and guilt for all the murex that gave their shells for that unique shade of purple she was so proud of.
She wasn’t sure even Teddy Steambolt could muster his magic to save the divine creation. She imagined his eyes widen as saucers when she entered his Palace of Pristine with the lifeless garment in her arms. He would most certainly swoon and gasp at the same time.
“Oh, The tragedy!” he would wail, his high-pitched lament resonating in the cathedral ceiling of his atelier of cleanliness. “What calamity hath befallen this exquisite creation?”
“Teddy, dear,” she would say, “It was indeed a tragedy. I lost seven of my nails and my hair was ruined. You’re the alchemist of cleanliness, you’re my only hope for a miracle.”
And he would take her dress and perform his magic from which it would emerge reborn, and all those murex wouldn’t have lost their home for nothing.
She was about to follow the others when Malové reminded her: “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
A broom and a bucket of black soap were floating on her right.
Her sigh would have made a blue whale blush with envy. Her role tonight would not be the Snow Queen, but Cinderella, another of her favourite diva.
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
Every conversation stopped and every head turned to the door when Jeezel entered the Faded Cabbage. Her cheeks, round as plums, always gave her a fresh look. Her eyes, a mesmerizing shade of deep emerald green sparkling with otherworldy wisdom, slowly scanned the room, never looking at anyone in particular but seeing all. Her long ebony locks cascaded down her back, accentuating the mysterious aura that surrounded her. When Jeezel spotted her friends in that dimly lit corner, she pouted. The conversations suddenly started again, questions and rumours about her in every mouth. When she was sure everybody was talking about her, the hint of a smile raised the corner of her lips, as red as the apple that poisoned Snow White. She moved nonchalantly between the tables. The air around her shimmered with magic, leaving an indelible impression on those fortunate enough to be here that day.
Although, as soon as Jeezel entered Truella’s cloaking spell, people forgot all about her and resumed their conversation. She felt a pang of regret and sighed as she let her bottom fall gracefully on the chair. She put her phone on the table and started tapping it with her fingers. Each of them had an intricate silver ring carrying a unique enchantment.
“Jeez, Jeez!” exclaimed Truella. “Do you always have to project that attention-catching spell wherever you go? We need discretion.”
“What’s the purpose of having a beautiful silhouette if nobody’s looking at it?” Jeezel asked looking sideways at a blushing Frigella.
“And boy, stop that noise with your rings, said Truella. It makes me want to puke.”
“And I thought you were all about freedom,” snorted Jeezel.
“My freedom! How many times do I have to repeat? Where were we?” Truella asked rhetorically to Frigella.
A dozen notifications popped up on Jeezel’s phone. She picked it up, counted the likes to her last reality potion spell and started to scroll the replies of her Flick Flock fans.
In reply to: Family Stories From The Other Side ~ Book Two
Thomas Josiah Tay
22 Feb 1816 – 16 November 1878
“Make us glad according to the days wherein thou hast afflicted us, and the years wherein we have seen evil.”
I first came across the name TAY in the 1844 will of John Tomlinson (1766-1844), gentleman of Wergs, Tettenhall. John’s friends, trustees and executors were Edward Moore, surgeon of Halesowen, and Edward Tay, timber merchant of Wolverhampton.
Edward Moore (born in 1805) was the son of John’s wife’s (Sarah Hancox born 1772) sister Lucy Hancox (born 1780) from her first marriage in 1801. In 1810 widowed Lucy married Josiah Tay (1775-1837).
Edward Tay was the son of Sarah Hancox sister Elizabeth (born 1778), who married Thomas Tay in 1800. Thomas Tay (1770-1841) and Josiah Tay were brothers.
Edward Tay (1803-1862) was born in Sedgley and was buried in Penn. He was innkeeper of The Fighting Cocks, Dudley Road, Wolverhampton, as well as a builder and timber merchant, according to various censuses, trade directories, his marriage registration where his father Thomas Tay is also a timber merchant, as well as being named as a timber merchant in John Tomlinsons will.
John Tomlinson’s daughter Catherine (born in 1794) married Benjamin Smith in Tettenhall in 1822. William Tomlinson (1797-1867), Catherine’s brother, and my 3x great grandfather, was one of the witnesses.
Their daughter Matilda Sarah Smith (1823-1910) married Thomas Josiah Tay in 1850 in Birmingham. Thomas Josiah Tay (1816-1878) was Edward Tay’s brother, the sons of Elizabeth Hancox and Thomas Tay.
Therefore, William Hancox 1737-1816 (the father of Sarah, Elizabeth and Lucy), was Matilda’s great grandfather and Thomas Josiah Tay’s grandfather.
Thomas Josiah Tay’s relationship to me is the husband of first cousin four times removed, as well as my first cousin, five times removed.
In 1837 Thomas Josiah Tay is mentioned in the will of his uncle Josiah Tay.
In 1841 Thomas Josiah Tay appears on the Stafford criminal registers for an “attempt to procure miscarriage”. He was found not guilty.
According to the Staffordshire Advertiser on 14th March 1840 the listing for the Assizes included: “Thomas Ashmall and Thomas Josiah Tay, for administering noxious ingredients to Hannah Evans, of Wolverhampton, with intent to procure abortion.”
The London Morning Herald on 19th March 1840 provides further information: “Mr Thomas Josiah Tay, a chemist and druggist, surrendered to take his trial on a charge of having administered drugs to Hannah Lear, now Hannah Evans, with intent to procure abortion.” She entered the service of Tay in 1837 and after four months “an intimacy was formed” and two months later she was “enciente”. Tay advised her to take some pills and a draught which he gave her and she became very ill. The prosecutrix admitted that she had made no mention of this until 1939. Verdict: not guilty.
However, the case of Thomas Josiah Tay is also mentioned in a couple of law books, and the story varies slightly. In the 1841 Reports of Cases Argued and Rules at Nisi Prius, the Regina vs Ashmall and Tay case states that Thomas Ashmall feloniously, unlawfully, and maliciously, did use a certain instrument, and that Thomas Josiah Tay did procure the instrument, counsel and command Ashmall in the use of it. It concludes that Tay was not compellable to plead to the indictment, and that he did not.
The Regina vs Ashmall and Tay case is also mentioned in the Encyclopedia of Forms and Precedents, 1896.
In 1845 Thomas Josiah Tay married Isabella Southwick in Tettenhall. Two years later in 1847 Isabella died.
In 1850 Thomas Josiah married Matilda Sarah Smith. (granddaughter of John Tomlinson, as mentioned above)
On the 1851 census Thomas Josiah Tay was a farmer of 100 acres employing two labourers in Shelfield, Walsall, Staffordshire. Thomas Josiah and Matilda Sarah have a daughter Matilda under a year old, and they have a live in house servant.
In 1861 Thomas Josiah Tay, his wife and their four children Ann, James, Josiah and Alice, live in Chelmarsh, Shropshire. He was a farmer of 224 acres. Mercy Smith, Matilda’s sister, lives with them, a 28 year old dairy maid.
In 1863 Thomas Josiah Tay of Hampton Lode (Chelmarsh) Shropshire was bankrupt. Creditors include Frederick Weaver, druggist of Wolverhampton.
In 1869 Thomas Josiah Tay was again bankrupt. He was an innkeeper at The Fighting Cocks on Dudley Road, Wolverhampton, at the time, the same inn as his uncle Edward Tay, aforementioned timber merchant.
In 1871, Thomas Josiah Tay, his wife Matilda, and their three children Alice, Edward and Maryann, were living in Birmingham. Thomas Josiah was a commercial traveller.
He died on the 16th November 1878 at the age of 62 and was buried in Darlaston, Walsall. On his gravestone:
“Make us glad according to the days wherein thou hast afflicted us, and the years wherein we have seen evil.” Psalm XC 15 verse.
Edward Moore, surgeon, was also a MAGISTRATE in later years. On the 1871 census he states his occupation as “magistrate for counties Worcester and Stafford, and deputy lieutenant of Worcester, formerly surgeon”. He lived at Townsend House in Halesowen for many years. His wifes name was PATTERN Lucas. Her mothers name was Pattern Hewlitt from Birmingham, an unusal name that I have not heard before. On the 1871 census, Edward’s son was a 22 year old solicitor.
In 1861 an article appeared in the newspapers about the state of the morality of the women of Dudley. It was claimed that all the local magistrates agreed with the premise of the article, concerning unmarried women and their attitudes towards having illegitimate children. Letters appeared in subsequent newspapers signed by local magistrates, including Edward Moore, strongly disagreeing.
Staffordshire Advertiser 17 August 1861:
In reply to: The Jorid’s Travels – 14 years on
Georges was following an orange line on the floor of Jorid’s corridor with Barney on his left shoulder. The man was talking to the creature and listening to the occasional chirps Barney made as if they were part of a normal conversation.
“You see, Barney,” said Georges. “Salomé gave us this checklist.” He tapped on the clipboard with his index finger. “I have to conduct all those experiments with you in the lab while she’s doing whatever she’s doing with the maps. Salomé loves maps, I can tell you. Always trying to invent new ones that would help us navigate all those dimensions. But they confuse me, so I’m glad to leave that to her and Jorid.”
The two of them stopped in front of an orange door with a tag on it.
“So you’ll ask me: ‘Georges, why are we going to the kitchen instead of going into the lab?’ —which is the blue door.”
Georges waited for Barney’s chirp before continuing.
“You’re right! She forgot the most important. What do you like to eat? You can’t do that in a lab with instruments stuck onto your head and tummy. It’s best done in the warm and cozy atmosphere of a kitchen.”
The door swooshed open and they entered a bland, sanitised kitchen.
“Jorid, morph the kitchen into a 19th century style pub, with greasy smells and a cozy atmosphere.”
“Shouldn’t you be into the lab?” asked Jorid.
“Let’s call it a kitchen lab,” answered Georges. “So you can tell Salomé I’m in the lab if she asks you.”
“Most certainly.”
The bland rooms started wobbling and becoming darker. Gas wall lamps were coming out of the walls, and a Chandeliers bloomed from the ceiling. The kitchen island turned into a mahogany pub counter behind which the cupboards turned into glass shelves with a collection of colourful liquor bottles. Right beside the beer pumps was the cornucopia, the source of all things edible, the replicator. It was simple and looked like a silver tray.
“That’s more like it,” said Georges. He put Barney on the counter and the creature chirped contentedly to show his agreement.
“Now, You don’t look like the kind of guy who eat salad”, said Georges. “What do you want to try?”
Barney shook his head and launched into a series of chirps and squeals.
“I know! Let’s try something you certainly can’t find where you come from… outer space. Jorid, make us some good pickles in a jar.”
The replicator made a buzzing sound and a big jar full of pickles materialised on the silver tray. Barney chirped in awe and Georges frowned.
“Why did you make a Roman jar?” he asked. “We’re in a 19th century pub. And the pickles are so huge! Aubergine size.”
“My apologies,” said Jorid. “I’m confused. As you know, my database is a bit scrambled at the moment…”
“It’s ok,” said Georges who feared the ship would launch into some unsolicited confidences and self deprecating moment. “A pickle is a pickle anyway.” He picked a pickle in the jar and turned towards Barney with a big grin. “Let’s try some.”
Barney’s eyes widened. He put his hands in front of him and shook his head. The door swooshed open.
“What have you done with the kitchen?” asked Léonard. “And what are you trying to feed this rat with?”
“This rat has a name. It’s Barney. What are you doing here?” asked Georges.
“Well, Isn’t it a kitchen? I’m hungry.”
“I mean, shouldn’t you go check your vitals first in med bay?”
“When you feel hungry, it’s enough to tell a man he’s alive and well,” said Léonard. “Nice roman jar, Jorid. Depicting naked roman fighters, archaeological finding of 2nd century BC, good state of conservation.” He looked closer. “Intricate details between the legs… You surpassed yourself on that one Jorid.”
“Thanks for the compliment Léonard. It’s reassuring to know I’m still doing great at some things when others think I’m losing it.”
“I never said…” started Georges.
“You thought it.”
Léonard took a pickle from the jar and smelled it. He winced.
“Sure, smells like pickles enough,” he said, putting it back in the jar and licking his finger. “Disgusting.” He looked at Georges. “I was thinking of taking a shuttle and doing a little tour, while you solve the navigational array problem with Salomé.”
“Why are you asking me? Why don’t you just take a shuttle and go there by yourself?”
“Jorid won’t let me take one.”
“Jorid? Why don’t you let Léonard take a shuttle?”
“Salomé said he’s not to be left out of the ship without supervision.”
“Oh! Right,” said Georges. “We just rescued you from a sand prison egg where you’ve been kept in stasis for several weeks and you can’t remember anything that led you there. Why don’t we let you pilot a shuttle and wander about on your own?”
Léonard looked at Georges, annoyed. He picked a pickle from the jar and took a bite. Barney squealed. As Léonard chewed and made crunching sounds, the creature hit its head with its paw.
“Then why don’t you come with me?” asked Léonard.
“I can’t believe it.”
“What? You go with me. You can supervise me wherever I go. Problem solved.”
“No. I mean. You eating one of Barney’s pickles.”
Léonard took another bite and chewed noisily. Barney chirped and squealed. He put his hands to its throat and spat on the counter.
“I’m sure he won’t mind. Look at him. Doesn’t seem it likes pickles that much.”
“You hate pickles, Léonard.”
“I know. That’s disgusting.”
“Why do you eat them if you find it disgusting?”
“That’s the sound of it. It’s melodious. And for some reason those pickles are particularly good.”
Barney jumped on Georges arm and ran to his neck where he planted his little claws in.
“Ouch!” said Georges. He slapped Léonard’s hand before the man could take one more pickle bite. “What the f*ck?”
“Hey! Why did you do that?”
“It’s not me,” said Georges. Barney squealed and Georges’s hands pushed the jar on the floor. It crashed and a flood of pickle and vinegar juice spread on the floor.
“Haven’t your mother told you not to play with food?” asked Léonard diving on the floor to catch some more pickles. Barney chirped and squealed while Georges’s body jumped on Léonard and they both rolled over in the pickles.
The door swooshed open.
“Guys, we need to…” started Salomé. She had a set of maps in her hands. “What’s that smell? What… did you do to the kitchen? ”
“Georges made me do it,” said Jorid.
“Georges broke a 2nd century BC jar,” said Léonard.
“Barney’s controlling me,” said Georges.
The creature shrugged and removed its claws from Georges’ neck.
“Squeak!”
“Ouch! Thank you,” said Georges, licking the pickle juice he got on his lips during the fight.
“I can’t believe it. Georges, you had a checklist. And it did not include the words kitchen or pickles or making a mess. And Léonard, you hate pickles.”
“I know,” said Léonard who took a bite in the pickle he was holding. “That’s disgusting, but I can’t help it they taste so good.”
Georges stole the pickle from Léonard’s hand and took a bite.
“Pick your own pickle,” said Léonard, stealing it back.
“Stop guys! That smell… Jorid what did you put in those pickles?”
“I took the liberty to change the recipe and added some cinnamon.”
“It doesn’t smell like cinnamon,” said Georges smelling his hands full of pickle juice. He took a bite in one and said: “Doesn’t taste like cinnamon either. I would know. I hate cinnamon since the time I was turned into an Asari.”
“That’s it,” said Salomé. “What kind of cinnamon did you put in the brew, Jorid?”
“I’ve heard it’s best to use local ingredients. I put cinnamon from Langurdy,” said the ship.
“Quick! Guys, spit it out,” she said, kneeling and putting her fingers into Georges’ throat to make him puke. “Jorid, make away with the pickles,” said Salomé.
“Nooo,” said the men.
“Cinnamon from Langurdy is very addictive,” Salomé snapped. “You don’t want to OD on pickles, do you?”
After they got the mess cleaned up and the kitchen went back to its normal blank state. Georges and Léonard took some pills to counter the effects of withdrawal. Salomé had them sit at the kitchen table. Georges kept blinking as if the white light on the white walls were hurting his eyes.
“You can thank Barney if you didn’t eat more pickles,” said Salomé. “You could have had a relapse, and you know how bad it was the first time you had to flush cinnamon from your body.”
Georges groaned.
“Anyway. I checked the maps with Jorid and I came upon an anomaly in the Southern Deserts. Something there is causing Jorid’s confusion. We’ll have to go down there if we ever want to leave this place and time.”
In reply to: The Jorid’s Travels – 14 years on
The trio entered the medical bay, Barney proudly perched on Salomé’s shoulder. Léonard was sitting on the edge of his bed in a blue hospital dress, looking around him, confused. He turned his head toward them and squinted.
“Georges?” he asked. “Salomé? Where…” He winced and slapped his forehead.
“Are you ok?” asked Salomé, moving toward him.
Léonard stretched his arm in front of him and Salomé felt her body pushed backward. Barney squeaked and the wave subsided.
“I’m ok,” Léonard said a few seconds later, breathing with difficulties, “just a headache. Where…”
Georges exchanged a look and a brief telepathic communication with Salomé. He had felt the wave too, and he was also feeling some kind of shield around his mind. It was different from all they had encountered before. They might have to fall back to the old ways.
“We’re back on Duane,” he said with a cheerful tone, hoping it would help their friend relax. Léonard had explored this system extensively, and it was there he had introduced Georges and Salomé to the reality of multidimensional travels and Elemental magic. It was a place full of memories and Georges was looking closely at his friend’s face and at the same time prodding his mind. But Léonard’s face didn’t show any reaction and his mind appeared empty.
“Actually, way back… in time,” Georges continued. “Jorid’s navigation array was gravely disturbed by this little creature… where is Barney?”
A weak chirp came out of Salomé’s luscious raven black hair.
“Come on, Barney,” she said, trying to take him out. “Come meet our friend Léonard.”
The creature was trembling like a leaf and clinging to strands of her hair, clearly not wanting to leave his hiding place.
“I think he likes your shampoo,” said Georges with a smirk. “Well, we just found this little sand Rin on Jorid’s hull, and the little culprit is generating interferences in the Boodenbaum quantum field. So until we find a way to neutralise whatever he’s doing, we’re stuck.”
Léonard looked annoyed. He tried to stand up, but his legs wouldn’t support him and he fell back on the bed.
“Why did the Zathu put you in that sand egg on Bluhm’Oxl?” asked Salomé, trying not to sound too concerned.
Léonard opened his mouth and froze, looking surprised. He frowned.
“I don’t recall,” he said.
“What do you recall?”
“I recall… receiving a tip from an old friend.”
“Who?”
“…”
“Jorid, can you read us the message from his friend?” asked Georges with a smile, as if he had found a simple solution.
“I can’t access the data,” said the ship. “Léonard deleted it, and the backups before he left.”
Georges’ smile faded. He looked at Salomé. She was thinking the same thing he was thinking and nodded.
“Why don’t we let you have some rest, you’ll join us for lunch when you’re dressed up and ready.”
