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[Scene opens with an elegant study, filled with books and ornate furniture. Liz Tattler sits comfortably in a plush armchair, draped in her signature flamboyant attire.]
Narrator (warm, engaging voice): “Meet Liz Tattler, the visionary behind countless bestsellers.”
[Quick cuts: Liz passionately gesturing as she describes her creative process, her hands adorned with long, pink nails.]
Narrator: “A master of transforming the mundane into the magical.”
[A playful montage of Liz surrounded by whimsical titles, each book cover a splash of color and intrigue.]
Narrator: “Where outrageous tales and heartfelt truths dance in harmony.”
[End with a close-up of Liz, a twinkle in her eye, the words “A Legacy of Imagination” glowing beneath her.]
Narrator: “Join us for an exclusive glimpse into the world of a storytelling legend.”
[Screen fades to “Liz Tattler: A Lifetime of Bestsellers” with contact details for the interview.]
In reply to: Quintessence: Reversing the Fifth
Matteo — December 1st 2023: the Advent Visit
(near Avignon, France)
The hallway smelled of nondescript antiseptic and artificial lavender, a lingering scent jarring his senses with an irreconciliable blend of sterility and forced comfort. Matteo shifted the small box of Christmas decorations under his arm, his boots squeaking slightly against the linoleum floor. Outside, the low winter sun cast long, pale shadows through the care facility’s narrow windows.
When he reached Room 208, Matteo paused, hand resting on the doorframe. From inside, he could hear the soft murmur of a holiday tune—something old-fashioned and meant to be cheerful, likely playing from the small radio he’d gifted her last year. Taking a breath, he stepped inside.
His mother, Drusilla sat by the window in her padded chair, a thick knit shawl draped over her frail shoulders. She was staring intently at her hands, her fingers trembling slightly as they folded and unfolded the edge of the shawl. The golden light streaming through the window framed her face, softening the lines of age and wear.
“Hi, Ma,” Matteo said softly, setting the box down on the small table beside her.
Her head snapped up at the sound of his voice, her eyes narrowing as she fixed him with a sharp, almost panicked look. “Léon?” she said, her voice shaking. “What are you doing here? How are you here?” There was a tinge of anger in her tone, the kind that masked fear.
Matteo froze, his breath catching. “Ma, it’s me. Matteo. I’m Matteo, your son, please calm down” he said gently, stepping closer. “Who’s Léon?”
She stared at him for a long moment, her eyes clouded with confusion. Then, like a tide retreating, recognition crept back into her expression. “Matteo,” she murmured, her voice softer now, though tinged with exhaustion. “Oh, my boy. I’m sorry. I—” She looked away, her hands clutching the shawl tighter. “I thought you were someone else.”
“It’s okay,” Matteo said, crouching beside her chair. “I’m here. It’s me.”
Drusilla reached out hesitantly, her fingers brushing his cheek. “You look so much like him sometimes,” she said. “Léon… your father. He’d hold his head just like that when he didn’t want anyone to know he was worried.”
As much as Matteo knew, Drusilla had arrived in France from Italy in her twenties. He was born soon after. She had a job as a hairdresser in a little shop in Avignon, and did errands and chores for people in the village. For the longest time, it was just the two of them, as far as he’d recall.
Matteo’s chest tightened. “You’ve never told me much about him.”
“There wasn’t much to tell,” she said, her voice distant. “He came. He left. But he gave me something before he went. I always thought it would mean something, but…” Her voice trailed off as she reached into the pocket of her shawl and pulled out a small silver medallion, worn smooth with age. She held it out to him. “He said it was for you. When you were older.”
Matteo took the medallion carefully, turning it over in his hand. It was a simple but well-crafted Saint Christopher medal, the patron saint of travellers, with faint initials etched on the back—L.A.. He didn’t recognize the letters, but the weight of it in his palm felt significant, grounding.
“Why didn’t you give it to me before?” he asked, his voice quiet.
“I forgot I had it,” she admitted with a faint, sad laugh. “And then I thought… maybe it was better to keep it. Something of his, for when I needed it. But I think it’s yours now.”
Matteo slipped the medallion into his pocket, his mind spinning with questions he didn’t want to ask—not now. “Thanks, Ma,” he said simply.
Drusilla sighed and leaned back in her chair, her gaze drifting to the small box he’d brought. “What’s that?”
“Decorations,” Matteo said, seizing the moment to shift the focus. “I thought we could make your room a little festive for Christmas.”
Her face softened, and she smiled faintly. “That’s nice,” she said. “I haven’t done that in… I don’t remember when.”
Matteo opened the box and began pulling out garlands and baubles. As he worked, Drusilla watched silently, her hands still clutching the shawl. After a moment, she spoke again, her voice quieter now.
“Do you remember our house in Crest?” she asked.
Matteo paused, a tangle of tinsel in his hands. “Crest?” he echoed. “The place where you wanted to move to?”
Drusilla nodded slowly. “I thought it would be nice. A co-housing place. I could grow old in the garden, and you’d be nearby. It seemed like a good idea then.”
“It was a good idea,” Matteo said. “It just… didn’t happen.”
“No,… you’re right” she said, collecting her thoughts for a moment, her gaze distant. “You were too restless. Always moving. I thought maybe you’d stay if we built something together.”
Matteo swallowed hard, the weight of her words pressing on him. “I wanted to, Ma,” he said. “I really did.”
Drusilla’s eyes softened, and she reached for his hand, her grip surprisingly strong. “You’re here now,” she said. “That’s what matters.”
They spent the next hour decorating the room. Matteo hung garlands around the window and draped tinsel over the small tree he’d set up on the table. Drusilla directed him with occasional nods and murmured suggestions, her moments of lucidity shining like brief flashes of sunlight through clouds.
When the last bauble was hung, Drusilla smiled faintly. “It’s beautiful,” she said. “Like home.”
Matteo sat beside her, emotion weighing on him more than the physical efforts and the early drive. He was thinking about the job offer in London, the chance to earn more money to ensure she had everything she needed here. But leaving her felt impossible, even as staying seemed equally unsustainable. He was afraid it was just a justification to avoid facing the slow fraying of her memories.
Drusilla’s voice broke through his thoughts. “You’ll figure it out,” she said, her eyes closing as she leaned back in her chair. “You always do.”
Matteo watched her as she drifted into a light doze, her breathing steady and peaceful. He reached into his pocket, his fingers brushing against the medallion. The weight of it felt like both a question and an answer—one he wasn’t ready to face yet.
“Patron saint of travellers”, that felt like a sign, if not a blessing.
In reply to: Quintessence: A Portrait in Reverse
Some elements for inspiration as to the backstory of the group and how it could tie to the current state of the story:
Here’s a draft version of the drama surrounding Éloïse and Monsieur Renard (the “strange couple”), incorporating their involvement with Darius, their influence on the group’s dynamic, and the fallout that caused the estrangement five years ago.
The Strange Couple: Éloïse and Monsieur Renard
Winter 2019: Paris, Just Before the Pandemic
The group’s last reunion before their estrangement was supposed to be a celebration—one of those rare moments when their diverging paths aligned. They had gathered in Paris in late December, the city cloaked in gray skies and glowing light. The plan was simple: a few days together, catching up, exploring old haunts, and indulging in the kind of reckless spontaneity that had defined their earlier years.
It was Darius who disrupted the rhythm. He had arrived late to their first dinner, rain-soaked and apologetic, with Éloïse and Monsieur Renard in tow.
First Impressions of Éloïse and Monsieur Renard
Éloïse was striking—lithe, dark-haired, with sharp eyes that seemed to unearth secrets before you could name them. She moved with a predatory grace, her laughter a mix of charm and edge. Renard was her shadow, older and impeccably dressed, his silvery hair and angular features giving him the air of a fox. He spoke little, but when he did, his words had the weight of finality, as if he were accustomed to being obeyed.
“They’re just friends,” Darius said when the others exchanged wary glances. “They’re… interesting. You’ll like them.”
But it didn’t take long for Éloïse and Renard to unsettle the group. At dinner, Éloïse dominated the conversation, her stories wild and improbable—of séances in abandoned mansions, of lost artifacts with strange energies, of lives transformed by unseen forces. Renard’s occasional interjections only added to the mystique, his tone implying he’d seen more than he cared to share.
Lucien, ever the skeptic, found himself drawn to Éloïse despite his instincts. Her talk of energies and symbols resonated with his artistic side, and when she mentioned labyrinths, his attention sharpened.
Elara, in contrast, bristled at their presence. She saw through their mystique, recognizing in Renard the manipulative charisma of someone who thrived on control.
Amei was harder to read, but she watched Éloïse and Renard closely, her silence betraying a guardedness that hinted at deeper discomfort.
Darius’s Growing Involvement
Over the following days, Darius spent more time with Éloïse and Renard, skipping planned outings with the group. He spoke of them with a reverence that was uncharacteristic, praising their insight into things he’d never thought to question.
“They see connections in everything,” he told Amei during a rare moment alone. “It’s… enlightening.”
“Connections to what?” she asked, her tone sharper than she intended.
“Paths, people, purpose,” he replied vaguely. “It’s hard to explain, but it feels… right.”
Amei didn’t press further, but she mentioned it to Elara later. “It’s like he’s slipping into something he can’t see his way out of,” she said.
The Séance
The turning point came during an impromptu gathering at Éloïse and Renard’s rented apartment—a dimly lit space filled with strange objects: glass jars of cloudy liquid, intricate carvings, and an ornate bronze bell hanging above the mantelpiece.
Éloïse had invited the group for what she called “an evening of clarity.” The others arrived reluctantly, wary of what she had planned but unwilling to let Darius face it alone.
The séance began innocuously enough—Éloïse guiding them through what she described as a “journey inward.” She spoke in a low, rhythmic tone, her words weaving a spell that was hard to resist.
Then things took a darker turn. She asked them to focus on the labyrinth she had drawn on the table—a design eerily similar to the map Lucien had found weeks earlier.
“You must find your center,” she said, her voice dropping. “But beware the edges. They’ll show you things you’re not ready to see.”
The room grew heavy with silence. Darius leaned into the moment, his eyes closed, his breathing steady. Lucien tried to focus but felt a growing unease. Elara sat rigid, her scientific mind railing against the absurdity of it all. Amei’s hands gripped the edge of the table, her knuckles white.
And then, the bell rang.
It was faint at first, a distant chime that seemed to come from nowhere. Then it grew louder, resonating through the room, its tone deep and haunting.
“What the hell is that?” Lucien muttered, his eyes snapping open.
Éloïse smiled faintly but said nothing. Renard’s expression remained inscrutable, though his fingers tapped rhythmically against the table, as if counting something unseen.
Elara stood abruptly, breaking the spell. “This is ridiculous,” she said. “You’re playing with people’s minds.”
Darius’s eyes opened, his gaze unfocused. “You don’t understand,” he said softly. “It’s not a game.”
The Fallout
The séance fractured the group.
- Elara: Left the apartment furious, calling Renard a charlatan and vowing never to entertain such nonsense again. Her relationship with Darius cooled, her disappointment palpable.
- Lucien: Became fascinated with the labyrinth and its connection to his art, but he couldn’t shake the unease the séance had left. His conversations with Éloïse deepened in the following days, further isolating him from the group.
- Amei: Refused to speak about what she’d experienced. When pressed, she simply said, “Some things are better left forgotten.”
- Darius stayed with Éloïse and Renard for weeks after the others left Paris, becoming more entrenched in their world. But something changed. When he finally returned, he was distant and cagey, unwilling to discuss what had happened during his time with them.
Lingering Questions
- What Happened to Darius with Éloïse and Renard?
- Darius’s silence suggests something traumatic or transformative occurred during his deeper involvement with the couple.
- The Bell’s Role:
- The bronze bell that rang during the séance ties into its repeated presence in the story. Was it part of the couple’s mystique, or does it hold a deeper significance?
- Lucien’s Entanglement:
- Éloïse and Renard’s Motives:
- Were they simply grifters manipulating Darius and others, or were they genuinely exploring something deeper, darker, and potentially dangerous?
Impact on the Reunion
In reply to: Quintessence: Reversing the Fifth
Darius: A Map of People
June 2023 – Capesterre-Belle-Eau, Guadeloupe
The air in Capesterre-Belle-Eau was thick with humidity, the kind that clung to your skin and made every movement slow and deliberate. Darius leaned against the railing of the veranda, his gaze fixed on the horizon where the sky blends into the sea. The scent of wet earth and banana leaves filling the air. He was home.
It had been nearly a year since hurricane Fiona swept through Guadeloupe, its winds blowing a trail of destruction across homes, plantations, and lives. Capesterre-Belle-Eau had been among the hardest hit, its banana plantations reduced to ruin and its roads washed away in torrents of mud.
Darius hadn’t been here when it happened. He’d read about it from across the Atlantic, the news filtering through headlines and phone calls from his aunt, her voice brittle with worry.
“Darius, you should come back,” she’d said. “The land remembers everyone who’s left it.”
It was an unusual thing for her to say, but the words lingered. By the time he arrived in early 2023 to join the relief efforts, the worst of the crisis had passed, but the scars remained—on the land, on the people, and somewhere deep inside himself.
Home, and Not — Now, passing days having turned into quick six months, Darius was still here, though he couldn’t say why. He had thrown himself into the work, helped to rebuild homes, clear debris, and replant crops. But it wasn’t just the physical labor that kept him—it was the strange sensation of being rooted in a place he’d once fled.
Capesterre-Belle-Eau wasn’t just home; it was bones-deep memories of childhood. The long walks under the towering banana trees, the smell of frying codfish and steaming rice from his aunt’s kitchen, the rhythm of gwoka drums carrying through the evening air.
“Tu reviens pour rester cette fois ?” Come back to stay? a neighbor had asked the day he returned, her eyes sharp with curiosity.
He had laughed, brushing off the question. “On verra,” he’d replied. We’ll see.
But deep down, he knew the answer. He wasn’t back for good. He was here to make amends—not just to the land that had raised him but to himself.
A Map of Travels — On the veranda that afternoon, Darius opened his phone and scrolled through his photo gallery. Each image was pinned to a digital map, marking all the places he’d been since he got the phone. Of all places, it was Budapest which popped out, a poor snapshot of Buda Castle.
He found it a funny thought — just like where he was now, he hadn’t planned to stay so long there. He remembered the date: 2020, in the midst of the pandemic. He’d spent in Budapest most of it, sketching the empty streets.
Five years ago, their little group of four had all been reconnecting in Paris, full of plans that never came to fruition. By late 2019, the group had scattered, each of them drawn into their own orbits, until the first whispers of the pandemic began to ripple across the world.
Funding his travels had never been straightforward. He’d tried his hand at dozens of odd jobs over the years—bartending in Lisbon, teaching English in Marrakech, sketching portraits in tourist squares across Europe. He lived frugally, keeping his possessions light and his plans loose. Yet, his confidence had a way of opening doors; people trusted him without knowing why, offering him opportunities that always seemed to arrive at just the right time.
Even during the pandemic, when the world seemed to fold in on itself, he had found a way.
Darius had already arrived in Budapest by then, living cheaply in a rented studio above a bakery. The city had remained open longer than most in Europe or the world, its streets still alive with muted activity even as the rest of Europe closed down. He’d wandered freely for months, sketching graffiti-covered bridges, quiet cafes, and the crumbling facades of buildings that seemed to echo his own restlessness.
When the lockdowns finally came like everywhere else, it was just before winter, he’d stayed, uncertain of where else to go. His days became a rhythm of sketching, reading, and sending postcards. Amei was one of the few who replied—but never ostentatiously. It was enough to know she was still there, even if the distance between them felt greater than ever.
But the map didn’t tell the whole story. It didn’t show the faces, the laughter, the fleeting connections that had made those places matter.
Swatting at a buzzing mosquito, he reached for the small leather-bound folio on the table beside him. Inside was a collection of fragments: ticket stubs, pressed flowers, a frayed string bracelet gifted by a child in Guatemala, and a handful of postcards he’d sent to Amei but had never been sure she received.
One of them, yellowed at the edges, showed a labyrinth carved into stone. He turned it over, his own handwriting staring back at him.
“Amei,” it read. “I thought of you today. Of maps and paths and the people who make them worth walking. Wherever you are, I hope you’re well. —D.”
He hadn’t sent it. Amei’s responses had always been brief—a quick WhatsApp message, a thumbs-up on his photos, or a blue tick showing she’d read his posts. But they’d never quite managed to find their way back to the conversations they used to have.
The Market — The next morning, Darius wandered through the market in Trois-Rivières, a smaller town nestled between the sea and the mountains. The vendors called out their wares—bunches of golden bananas, pyramids of vibrant mangoes, bags of freshly ground cassava flour.
“Tiens, Darius!” called a woman selling baskets woven from dried palm fronds. “You’re not at work today?”
“Day off,” he said, smiling as he leaned against her stall. “Figured I’d treat myself.”
She handed him a small woven bracelet, her eyes twinkling. “A gift. For luck, wherever you go next.”
Darius accepted it with a quiet laugh. “Merci, tatie.”
As he turned to leave, he noticed a couple at the next stall—tourists, by the look of them, their backpacks and wide-eyed curiosity marking them as outsiders. They made him suddenly realise how much he missed the lifestyle.
The woman wore an orange scarf, its boldness standing out as if the color orange itself had disappeared from the spectrum, and only a single precious dash could be seen into all the tones of the market. Something else about them caught his attention. Maybe it was the way they moved together, or the way the man gestured as he spoke, as if every word carried weight.
“Nice scarf,” Darius said casually as he passed.
The woman smiled, adjusting the fabric. “Thanks. Picked it up in Rajasthan. It’s been with me everywhere since.”
Her partner added, “It’s funny, isn’t it? The things we carry. Sometimes it feels like they know more about where we’ve been than we do.”
Darius tilted his head, intrigued. “Do you ever think about maps? Not the ones that lead to places, but the ones that lead to people. Paths crossing because they’re meant to.”
The man grinned. “Maybe it’s not about the map itself,” he said. “Maybe it’s about being open to seeing the connections.”
A Letter to Amei — That evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Darius sat at the edge of the bay, his feet dangling above the water. The leather-bound folio sat open beside him, its contents spread out in the fading light.
He picked up the labyrinth postcard again, tracing its worn edges with his thumb.
“Amei,” he wrote on the back just under the previous message a second one —the words flowing easily this time. “Guadeloupe feels like a map of its own, its paths crossing mine in ways I can’t explain. It made me think of you. I hope you’re well. —D.”
He folded the card into an envelope and tucked it into his bag, resolving to send it the next day.
As he watched the waves lap against the rocks, he felt a sense of motion rolling like waves asking to be surfed. He didn’t know where the next path would lead next, but he felt it was time to move on again.
In reply to: Quintessence: Reversing the Fifth
It was the chalkapocalypse, which in actual fact occurred so close to Elara’s coming retirement that it hardly need have bothered her in the slightest, that had sparked her interest. She, like many of her colleagues, had quickly stockpiled the Japanese chalk, and she had more than enough to see out the remaining term of her employment at the university. Not that she wanted to stay at Warwick, she’d had enough of university politics and funding cuts, not to mention the dreary midlands weather.
When at last the day had come, she’d sold her mediocre semi detached suburban house with its, more often than not, dripping shrubbery and rarely if ever used white metal patio table and chairs, and made the move, with the intention of pursuing her research at her leisure. In the warmth of a Tuscan sun.
Often the words of her friend and colleague Tom came to her, as she settled into the farmhouse and familiarised herself with the land and the locals.
Physics is a process of getting stuck. Blackboards are the best tool for getting unstuck. You do most of your calculations on paper. Then, when you reach a dead end, you go to the blackboard and share the problem with a colleague. But here’s the funny thing. You often solve the problem yourself in the process of writing it out. You don’t imagine something first and then write it down. It’s through the act of writing that ideas make themselves known. Scientists at blackboards have thoughts that wouldn’t come if they just stood there, with their arms folded.
It was entirely down to Tom’s words that Elara had painted the walls of the barn with blackboard paint, and stocked it with the remains of her Hagoromo chalk hoard, as well as samples of every other available chalk. She had also purchased a number of books on the history of chalk. She’d had no intention of rushing, and retirement provided a relaxed environment for going at her own pace, unfettered by the relentless demands of students and classes. It was a project to savour, luxuriate in, amuse herself with.
When Florian had arrived, she was occupied with showing him around, and before long setting him to tasks that needed doing, and her chalk project had remained on a back burner. He’d asked her about the blackboards in the barn, and wondered if she was planning on giving lectures.
Laughing, Elara said no, that was the last thing she ever wanted to do again. She shared with him what Tom had said, about the ideas flowing during the process of writing.
“And while that makes perfect sense in any medium, not just chalk, it’s the chalk itself ….” Elara smiled. “Well, you don’t want to hear all the technical details. And I wouldn’t want to spill the beans before I’m sure.”
“It does make sense,” Florian replied, “To just write and then the ideas will flow. I’ve been wanting to write a book, but I never know how to start, and I’m not even sure what I want to write about. But perhaps I should just start writing.” Grinning, he added, “Probably not with chalk, though.”
“That’s the spirit, just make a start. You never know what may come of it. And it can be fun, you know, and illuminating in ways you didn’t expect. I used to write stories with a few friends….” Elara’s voice trailed off uncomfortably, as if a cloud had obscured the sun.
Florian noticed her unexpected discomfiture, and tactfully changed the subject. We all have pasts we don’t want to talk about. “Is the sun sufficiently past the yard arm for a glass of wine?” he asked. “What is a yard arm, anyway?”
“A yard is a spar on a mast from which sails are set. It may be constructed of timber or steel or from more modern materials such as aluminium or carbon fibre. Although some types of fore and aft rigs have yards, the term is usually used to describe the horizontal spars used on square rigged sails…”
“Once a lecturer, always a lecturer, eh?” Florian teased.
“Sorry!” Elara said with a rueful look. ” I’d love a glass of wine.”
In reply to: Quintessence: A Portrait in Reverse
Work in Progress: Character Timelines and Events
Matteo
- November 2024 (Reunion):
- Newly employed at the Sarah Bernhardt Café, started after its reopening.
- Writes the names of Lucien, Elara, Darius, and Amei in his notebook without understanding why.
- Acquires the bell from Les Reliques, drawn to it as if guided by an unseen force.
- Serves the group during the reunion, surprised to see all four together, though he knows them individually.
- Summer 2024 (Olympics):
- Working in a vineyard in southern France, nearing the end of the harvest season.
- Receives a call for a renovation job in Paris, which pulls him toward the city.
- Feels an intuitive connection to Paris, as if something is waiting for him there.
- Past Events (Implied):
- Matteo has a mysterious ability to sense patterns and connections in people’s lives.
- Has likely crossed paths with the group in unremarkable but meaningful ways before.
Darius
- November 2024 (Reunion):
- Arrives at the café, a wanderer who rarely stays in one place.
- Reflects on his time in India during the autumn and the philosophical journey it sparked.
- Brings with him an artifact that ties into his travels and personal story.
- Summer 2024 (Olympics):
- Living in Barcelona, sketching temples and engaging with a bohemian crowd.
- Prompted by a stranger to consider a trip to India, sparking curiosity and the seeds of his autumn journey.
- Begins to plan his travels, sensing that India is calling him for a reason he doesn’t yet understand.
- Past Events (Implied):
- Has a history of introducing enigmatic figures to the group, often leading to tension.
- His intense, nomadic lifestyle creates both fascination and distance between him and the others.
Elara
- November 2024 (Reunion):
- Travels from England to Paris to attend the reunion, balancing work and emotional hesitation.
- Still processing her mother’s passing and reflecting on their strained relationship.
- Finds comfort in the shared dynamics of the group but remains analytical about the events around the bell.
- Summer 2024 (Olympics):
- (was revealed to be a dream event) Attends a CERN conference in Geneva, immersed in intellectual debates and cutting-edge research. Receives news of her mother’s death in Montrouge, prompting a reflective journey to make funeral arrangements. Struggles with unresolved feelings about her mother but finds herself strangely at peace with the finality.
- Dreams of her mother’s death during a nap in Tuscany, a surreal merging of past and present that leaves her unsettled.
- Hears a bell’s clang, only to find Florian fixing a bell to the farmhouse gate. The sound pulls her further into introspection about her mother and her life choices.
- Mentors Florian, encouraging him to explore his creativity, paralleling her own evolving relationship with her chalk research.
- Past Events (Implied):
- Moved to Tuscany after retiring from academia, pursuing independent research on chalk.
- Fondly remembers the creative writing she once shared with the group, though it now feels like a distant chapter of her life.
- Had a close but occasionally challenging relationship with Lucien and Amei during their younger years.
- Values intellectual connections over emotional ones but is gradually learning to reconcile the two.
Lucien
- November 2024 (Reunion):
- Sends the letter that brings the group together at the café, though his intentions are unclear even to himself.
- In his Paris studio, struggles with an unfinished commissioned painting. Feels disconnected from his art and his sense of purpose.
- Packs a suitcase with sketchbooks and a bundle wrapped in linen, symbolizing his uncertainty—neither a complete departure nor a definitive arrival.
- Heads to the café in the rain, reluctant but compelled to reconnect with the group. Confronts his feelings of guilt and estrangement from the group.
- Summer 2024 (Olympics):
- Escapes Paris, overwhelmed by the crowds and noise of the Games, and travels to Lausanne.
- Reflects on his artistic block and the emotional weight of his distance from the group.
- Notices a sketch in his book of a doorway with a bell he doesn’t recall drawing, sparking vague recognition.
- Past Events (Implied):
- Once the emotional “anchor” of the group, he drifted apart after a falling-out or personal crisis.
- Feels a lingering sense of responsibility to reunite the group but struggles with his own vulnerabilities.
Amei
- November 2024 (Reunion):
- Joins the reunion at Lucien’s insistence, hesitant but curious about reconnecting with the group.
- Brings with her notebooks filled with fragments of stories and a quiet hope for resolution.
- Feels the weight of the group’s shared history but refrains from dwelling on it outwardly.
- Summer 2024 (Olympics):
- Recently moved into a smaller flat in London, downsizing after her daughter Tabitha left for university.
- Has a conversation with Tabitha about life and change, hinting at unresolved emotions about motherhood and independence.
- Tabitha jokes about Amei joining her in Goa, a suggestion Amei dismisses but secretly considers.
- Past Events (Implied):
Tabitha (Amei’s Daughter)
- November 2024:
- Summer 2024 (Olympics):
- Planning her autumn trip to Goa with friends, viewing it as a rite of passage.
- Discusses her mother’s habits with her peers, acknowledging Amei’s complexities while expressing affection.
- Past Events (Implied):
- Represents a bridge between Amei’s past and present, highlighting generational contrasts and continuities.
Key Threads and Patterns
- The Bell: Acts as a silent witness and instigator, threading its presence through pivotal moments in each character’s journey, whether directly or indirectly.
- Shared Histories: While each character grapples with personal struggles, their paths hint at intersections in the past, tied to unresolved tensions and shared experiences.
- Forward and Backward Motion: The narrative moves between the characters’ immediate challenges and the ripples of their past decisions, with the bell serving as a focal point for both.
In reply to: Quintessence: Reversing the Fifth
It was cold in Kent, much colder than Elara was used to at home in the Tuscan olive groves, but Mrs Lovejoy kept the guest house warm enough. On site at Samphire Hoe was another matter, the wind off the sea biting into her despite the many layers of clothing. It had been Florian’s idea to take the Mongolian hat with her. Laughing, she’d replied that it might come in handy if there was a costume party. Trust me, you’re going to need it, he’d said, and he was right. It had been a present from Amei, many years ago, but Elara had barely worn it. It wasn’t often that she found herself in a place cold enough to warrant it.
In a fortuitous twist of fate, Florian had asked if he could come and stay with her for awhile to find his feet after the tumultuous end of a disastrous relationship. It came at a time when Elara was starting to realise that there was too much work for her alone keeping the old farmhouse in order. Everyone wants to retire to the country but nobody thinks of all the work involved, at an age when one prefers to potter about, read books, and take naps.
Florian was a long lost (or more correctly never known) distant relative, a seventh cousin four times removed on her paternal side. They had come into contact while researching the family, comparing notes and photographs and family anecdotes. They became friends, finding they had much in common, and Elara was pleased to have him come to stay with her. Likewise, Florian was more than willing to help around the beautiful old place, and found it conducive to his writing. He spent the mornings gardening, decorating or running errands, and the afternoons tapping away at the novel he’d been inspired to start, sitting at the old desk in front of the French windows.
If it hadn’t been for Florian, Elara wouldn’t have accepted the invitation to join the chalk project. He had settled in so well, already had a working grasp of Italian, and got on well with her neighbours. She could leave him to look after everything and not worry about a thing.
Pulling the hat down over her ears, Elara ventured out into the early November chill. Mrs Lovejoy was coming up the path to the guesthouse, having been out to the corner shop. “I say, that’s a fine hat you have there, that’ll keep your cockles warm!” Mrs Lovejoy was bareheaded, wearing only a cardigan.
“It was a gift,” Elara told her, “I haven’t worn it much. A friend bought it for me years ago when we were in Mongolia.”
“Very nice, I’m sure,” replied the landlady, trying to remember where Mongolia was.
“Yes, she was nice,” Elara said wistfully. “We lost contact somehow.”
“Ah yes, well these things happen,” Mrs Lovejoy said. “People come into your life and then they go. Like my Bert…”
“Must go or I’ll be late!” Elara had already heard all about Bert a number of times.
In reply to: Quintessence: Reversing the Fifth
Sat. Nov. 30, 2024 5:55am — Matteo’s morning
Matteo’s mornings began the same way, no matter the city, no matter the season. A pot of strong coffee brewed slowly on the stove, filling his small apartment with its familiar, sense-sharpening scent. Outside, Paris was waking up, its streets already alive with the sound of delivery trucks and the murmurs of shopkeepers rolling open shutters.
He sipped his coffee by the window, gazing down at the cobblestones glistening from last night’s rain. The new brass sign above the Sarah Bernhardt Café caught the morning light, its sheen too pristine, too new. He’d started the server job there less than a week ago, stepping into a rhythm he already knew instinctively, though he wasn’t sure why.
Matteo had always been good at fitting in. Jobs like this were placeholders—ways to blend into the scenery while he waited for whatever it was that kept pulling him forward. The café had reopened just days ago after months of being closed for renovations, but to Matteo, it felt like it had always been waiting for him.
He set his coffee mug on the counter, reaching absently for the notebook he kept nearby. The act was automatic, as natural as breathing. Flipping open to a blank page, Matteo wrote down four names without hesitation:
Lucien. Elara. Darius. Amei.
He stared at the list, his pen hovering over the page. He didn’t know why he wrote it. The names had come unbidden, as though they were whispered into his ear from somewhere just beyond his reach. He ran his thumb along the edge of the page, feeling the faint indentation of his handwriting.
The strangest part wasn’t the names— it was the certainty that he’d see them that day.
Matteo glanced at the clock. He still had time before his shift. He grabbed his jacket, tucked the notebook into the inside pocket, and stepped out into the cool Parisian air.
Matteo’s feet carried him to a side street near the Seine, one he hadn’t consciously decided to visit. The narrow alley smelled of damp stone and dogs piss. Halfway down the alley, he stopped in front of a small shop he hadn’t noticed before. The sign above the door was worn, its painted letters faded: Les Reliques. The display in the window was an eclectic mix—a chessboard missing pieces, a cracked mirror, a wooden kaleidoscope—but Matteo’s attention was drawn to a brass bell sitting alone on a velvet cloth.
The door creaked as he stepped inside, the distinctive scent of freshly burnt papier d’Arménie and old dust enveloping him. A woman emerged from the back, wiry and pale, with sharp eyes that seemed to size Matteo up in an instant.
“You’ve never come inside,” she said, her voice soft but certain.
“I’ve never had a reason to,” Matteo replied, though even as he spoke, the door closed shut the outside sounds.
“Today, you might,” the woman said, stepping forward. “Looking for something specific?”
“Not exactly,” Matteo replied. His gaze shifted back to the bell, its smooth surface gleaming faintly in the dim light.
“Ah.” The shopkeeper followed his eyes and smiled faintly. “You’re drawn to it. Not uncommon.”
“What’s uncommon about a bell?”
The woman chuckled. “It’s not the bell itself. It’s what it represents. It calls attention to what already exists—patterns you might not notice otherwise.”
Matteo frowned, stepping closer. The bell was unremarkable, small enough to fit in the palm of his hand, with a simple handle and no visible markings.
“How much?”
“For you?” The shopkeeper tilted his head. “A trade.”
Matteo raised an eyebrow. “A trade for what?”
“Your time,” the woman said cryptically, before waving her hand. “But don’t worry. You’ve already paid it.”
It didn’t make sense, but then again, it didn’t need to. Matteo handed over a few coins anyway, and the woman wrapped the bell in a square of linen.
Back on the street, Matteo slipped the bell into his pocket, its weight unfamiliar but strangely comforting. The list in his notebook felt heavier now, as though connected to the bell in a way he couldn’t quite articulate.
Walking back toward the café, Matteo’s mind wandered. The names. The bell. The shopkeeper’s words about patterns. They felt like pieces of something larger, though the shape of it remained elusive.
The day had begun to align itself, its pieces sliding into place. Matteo stepped inside, the familiar hum of the café greeting him like an old friend. He stowed his coat, slipped the bell into his bag, and picked up a tray.
Later that day, he noticed a figure standing by the window, suitcase in hand. Lucien. Matteo didn’t know how he recognized him, but the instant he saw the man’s rain-damp curls and paint-streaked scarf, he knew.
By the time Lucien settled into his seat, Matteo was already moving toward him, notebook in hand, his practiced smile masking the faint hum of inevitability coursing through him.
He didn’t need to check the list. He knew the others would come. And when they did, he’d be ready. Or so he hoped.
In reply to: Quintessence: Reversing the Fifth
Lucien pulled his suitcase through the rain-slick streets of Paris, the wheels rattling unevenly over the cobblestones. The rain fell in silver threads, blurring the city into streaks of light and shadow. His scarf, already streaked with paint, hung heavy and damp around his neck. Each step toward the café felt weighted, though he couldn’t tell if it was the suitcase behind him or the memories ahead.
The note he sent his friends had been simple. Sarah Bernhardt Café, November 30th , 4 PM. No excuses this time! Writing it had felt strange, as though summoning ghosts he wasn’t sure were ready to return. And now, with the café just blocks away, Lucien wasn’t sure if he wanted them to. Five years had passed since the four of them had last been together. He had told himself he needed this meeting—closure, perhaps—but a part of him still doubted.
He paused beneath a bookstore awning, the rain tracing fractured lines down the glass. His suitcase leaned against his leg, its weight pressing into him. Inside: a crumpled heap of clothes that smelled faintly of turpentine and the damp studio he had left behind, sketchbooks filled with forgotten drawings, and a small bundle wrapped in linen. Something he wasn’t ready to let go of—or couldn’t. He hadn’t decided yet if he was coming back or going away.
Lucien reached into his pocket and pulled out his last sketchbook. Flipping absently through its pages, he stopped at an old drawing of Darius, leaning over the edge of a rickety bridge, hand outstretched toward something unseen. He could still hear Darius’s voice: If you’re afraid of falling, you’ll never know what’s waiting. Lucien had scoffed then, but now the words lingered, uncomfortable in their truth.
The café came into view, its warm light pooling onto the wet street. Through the rain-speckled windows, he saw the familiar brass fixtures and etched glass, unchanged by time. He stepped inside, the warmth closing around him, and made his way to the corner table. Their table.
Setting the suitcase down, he folded into the chair and opened his sketchbook to a blank page. His pencil hovered. Outside, the rain fell softly, its rhythm steady against the glass. Inside, Lucien’s chest felt heavy. To make it go away, he started to scratch faint lines across the page.
In reply to: Quintessence: Reversing the Fifth
The train rattled on, its rhythm almost hypnotic. Amei rested her forehead against the cool glass, watching the countryside blur into a smudge of grey fields and skeletal trees. The rain had not let up the entire trip, each station bringing her closer to Paris—and to the friends she had once thought she would never lose.
She unfolded a letter in her lap, its creased edges softened by too many readings. So old-school to have sent a letter, and yet so typical of Lucien. The message was brief, just a handful of words in his familiar scrawl: Sarah Bernhardt Cafe, November 30th , 4 PM. No excuses this time! Below the terse instruction, there was an ink smudge. Perhaps, she imagined, a moment of second-guessing himself before sealing the envelope? Vulnerability had never been Lucien’s strength.
Catching her reflection in the window, Amei frowned at her hair, unruly from the long journey. She reached for the scarf draped loosely around her neck—a gift from Elara, given years ago. It had been a token from one of their countless shared adventures, and despite everything that had unfolded since, she had never been able to let it go. She twisted the soft fabric around her fingers, its familiar texture reassuring her, before tying it over her hair.
At her feet sat a well-worn tote bag, weighed down with notebooks. It was madness to have brought so many. Maybe it was reflexive, a habit ingrained from years of recording her travels, as though every journey demanded she tell the story of her life. Or perhaps it was a subconscious offering—she couldn’t show up empty-handed, not after five years of silence.
Five years had slipped by quickly! What had started as the odd missed call or unanswered email, and one too many postponed plans had snowballed into a silence none of them seemed to know how to bridge.
Darius had tried. His postcards arrived sporadically, cryptic glimpses of his nomadic life. Amei had never written back, though she had saved the postcards, tucking them between the pages of her notebooks like fragments of a lost map.
Lucien, on the other hand, had faded into obscurity, his absence feeling strangely like betrayal. Amei had always believed he’d remain their anchor, the unspoken glue holding them together. When he didn’t, the silence felt personal, even though she knew it wasn’t. And yet, it was Lucien who had insisted on this reunion.
The train hissed into the station, jolting Amei from her thoughts. The platform was a flurry of umbrellas and hurried footsteps. Hoisting her bag onto her shoulder, she navigated the throng, letting the rhythm of the city wash over her. Paris felt foreign and familiar all at once.
By the time she reached her hotel, the rain had seeped through her boots. She stood for a long moment in the tiny room—the best she could find on her budget—and gazed at her reflection in the cracked mirror. A quiet sense of inevitability settled over her. They would have all changed, of course. How could they not? Yet there was something undeniably comforting about the fact that their paths, no matter how far they had strayed, had led them back here—to Paris, to the Sarah Bernhardt Café.
Matteo Appears
Matteo approached the table, a tray balanced effortlessly in one hand, his dark eyes flicking over the group as though cataloging details in an invisible ledger. His waistcoat, sharp and clean, gave him a practiced professionalism, but there was something else—a casual, unspoken authority that drew attention.
“Good evening,” he began, his voice smooth and low, almost conspiratorial. Then, he froze for the briefest moment, his gaze shifting from face to face, the easy smile tightening at the corners.
“Well,” Matteo said finally, his smile broadening as if he’d just solved a riddle. “Here you all are. Together, at last.”
The group exchanged glances, each of them caught off-guard by the comment.
“You say that like you’ve been expecting us,” Elara said, her tone measured but sharp, as if probing for variables.
“Not expecting,” Matteo replied, his eyes glinting. “But hoping, perhaps. It’s… good to see you all like this. It fits, somehow.”
“What fits?” Darius asked, leaning forward. His voice was lighter than Elara’s but carried a weight that suggested he wouldn’t let the question drop easily.
Matteo’s smile deepened, though he didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he set down his tray and folded his hands in front of him, his posture relaxed but deliberate, as though he were balancing on the edge of some invisible line.
“You’ve never all been here before,” he said, a simple statement that landed like a challenge.
“Wait,” Amei said, narrowing her eyes. “You know us?”
“Oh, I know you,” Matteo replied, his tone as light as if they were discussing the weather. “Individually, yes. But together? This is new. And it’s… remarkable.”
“Remarkable how?” Lucien asked, his pencil stilled over his sketchbook.
Matteo tilted his head, considering the question as though weighing how much to say. “Let’s just call it a rarity. Things don’t often align so neatly. It’s not every day you see… well, this.”
He gestured toward them with a sweeping hand, as if the mere fact of their presence at the table was something extraordinary.
“You’re being cryptic,” Elara said, her voice edged with suspicion.
“It’s a talent,” Matteo replied smoothly.
“Alright, hold on.” Darius leaned back, his chair creaking under him. “How do you know us? I’ve never been here before. Not once.”
“Nor I,” Amei added, her voice soft but steady.
Matteo raised an eyebrow, his smile taking on a knowing tilt. “No, not here. But that’s not the only place to know someone, is it?”
The words hung in the air, unsettling and oddly satisfying at once.
“You’re saying we’ve met you before?” Elara asked.
Matteo inclined his head. “In a manner of speaking.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” Lucien said, his voice quiet but firm.
“Doesn’t it?” Matteo countered, his tone almost playful. “After all, do we ever truly remember every thread that weaves us together? Sometimes we only see the pattern when it’s complete.”
A pause settled over the table, heavy with unspoken questions. Matteo shifted his weight, breaking the silence with an easy gesture.
“It doesn’t matter how,” he said finally. “What matters is that you’re here. That’s what counts.”
“For what?” Amei asked, her eyes narrowing.
“For whatever happens next,” Matteo replied, as if the answer were obvious. Then he straightened, his professional mask sliding back into place with effortless grace.
“Now, what can I bring you?” he asked, his tone light again, as though the previous exchange hadn’t happened.
One by one, they placed their orders, though their minds were clearly elsewhere. Matteo scribbled in his notebook, his pen moving with deliberate strokes, and then he looked up once more.
“Thank you for being here,” he said, his voice quieter this time. “It’s been… a long time coming.”
And with that, he was gone, disappearing into the crowd with the same fluidity he’d arrived.
They sat in silence for a moment, his words pressing down on them like a hand on a wound, familiar and foreign all at once.
“What the hell was that?” Darius asked finally, breaking the spell.
“Does he seem… different to you?” Amei asked, her voice distant.
“He seems impossible,” Elara replied, her fingers tapping an unconscious rhythm on the table.
“He remembered me,” Lucien said, almost to himself. “Something about absinthe.”
“I’ve never even met him,” Elara said, her voice rising slightly. “But he knew… too much.”
“And he didn’t explain anything,” Darius added, shaking his head.
“Maybe he didn’t need to,” Amei said softly, her gaze fixed on the space Matteo had just vacated.
They lapsed into silence again, the noise of the café returning in fits and starts, like an orchestra warming up after a pause. Somewhere, a glass clinked against porcelain; outside, the violinist struck a note so low it hummed against the windowpane.
The four of them sat there, strangers and friends all at once, the questions left dangling between them like stars in a cloudy sky. Whatever Matteo had meant, it was clear this moment was no coincidence. It wasn’t an end, nor a beginning—it was the start of something unraveling, something they couldn’t yet see.
And though none of them said it aloud, the thought was the same: What had happened before?
Quintessence: Reversing the Fifth
“Who sees that the habit-energy of the projections of the beginningless past is the cause of the three realms and who understands that the tathagata stage is free from projections or anything that arises, attains the personal realisation of buddha knowledge and effortless mastery over their own minds” —The Lankavatara Sutra, 2.8 (trans. Red Pine).
“To trace the ripples of a beginningless sea is to chase a horizon that vanishes with each step; only by stilling the waves does the ocean reveal its boundless, unbroken clarity.”
~Echoes of the Vanished Shore, Selwyn Lemone.
What if the story would unfold in reverse this time? Would the struggle subsist, to remember the past events written comment after comment? Rather than writing towards a future, and —maybe— an elusive ending, would remembering layer after layers of events from the past change our outlook on why we write at all?
Let’s just have ourselves a new playground, a new experiment as this year draws to a close.
Four friends meet unexpectedly in a busy café, after five years not having seen each other.
Matteo, the server arrives, like a resonant fifth, bringing resolution to the root note —they all seem to know him, but why.
Answers are in their pasts. And story has to unfold backwards, a step at a time, to a beginningless past.
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
Thanks to Eris’s undeniable aptitude and professionalism for choosing the most efficacious spells and implementing them perfectly, and before Truella had got to grips with the first layer of the costumes undergarments, Cromwell was back at Austin Friars, and Malove stood before them, quivering with rage. Or was it panic?
“Fancy some of this cheese and some olives? The bread’s amazing, we’re having a picnic, and there’s some champers if Jeezel hasn’t guzzled it all,” Truella thought a casual nothing is wrong approach was worth a shot, however futile. It might delay the inevitable.
“Thanks,” replied Malove, sinking down on to the tartan picnic rug with a grateful if shuddering sigh. “That was awful, don’t even ask! I will never complain about anything ever again!”
“Really?” Truella wasn’t convinced. “What was it like?”
“No iboprufen. It was just awful. So damp, and no iboprufen.” Malove shivered. “My arthritis played me up something rotten.”
“Well, why on earth didn’t you just magic some up then?” Truella blurted out.
“Do you remember to just magic up a spell for your arthritis?” Truella quaked under the force of Malove’s terrifying glare.
“She doesn’t, but I do,” interjected Jeezel, scrolling through the images she’d just captured of the ongoing scenario and capturing a few more.
Does this mean I’m on holiday now too? Malove wondered. Jeezel caught the pensive but hopeful expression, Malove’s harsh profile softened with a fortuitous wisp of Truella’s cigarette smoke against a backdrop of bramble and vine covered ruins, an exotic foreign flower dangling lanquidly beside her ~ what a picture!
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
Although the small hotel was tucked in a relatively quiet corner, and despite the authentic but delightfully shabby interior of soothing dimensions ~ roomy and airy, but not vast and terrifyingly empty ~ the constant background hum of city life was making Truella yearn for the stillness of home. Not that home was silence, indeed not: the background tranquility was frequently punctuated with noises, many strident. A dog barks, a neighbour shouts, a car drives past from time to time. But the noises have an identifiable individuality and reason, unlike the continual maddening drone of the metropolis.
She was pleased to find her room had a little balcony. Even if the little wooden chair was rickety and uncomfortable, it was enough to perch on to enjoy a cigarette and breathe in the car fumes. Truella slept fitfully, waking to remember Tolkeinesque snapshots of dreams, drifting off again and returning to wakefullness with snatches of conversations in unknown tongues. Sitting on the balcony in the deep dark hours of the night, the street below, now quiet, shivered and changed, her head still swimming with dream images. She caught glimpses of people as they passed, vivid, clear and full of character. Many who passed were carrying bunches of grasses or herbs or wildflowers in their hands, the women with a basket over their arm and a shawl draped over their head or shoulders.
Hardly any men though, I wonder why?
When Truella mentioned it over breakfast the next moring, Eris said “You’ve been reading too much of that new gender and feminist anthropology stuff over on GreenGrotto.”
Laughing, Truella tipped another packet of sugar in her coffee. “I love the colour of the walls in here,” she said, gazing around the breakfast room. “A sort of bright but muted sun shining on a white wall. Nice old furniture, too.”
“Tell me about the old furniture, the mirror in my room is all speckled, makes me look like I have blemishes all over my face,” said Zeezel with a toss of her head. “Can I have your sugar, Frella, if you’re not having it,” adding I’m on holiday by way of excuse.
Absentmindely Frella passed over the paper packet. “I had strange dreams last night too…about that place we’re supposed to be going to a picnic to later.”
Catching everyones attention, she continued, “The abandoned colosseum with Giovanni, with all the vines and flowers. It was like a game board and the stone statues were the players and they moved around the board, Oh! and such a beautiful board it was with all the vines and flowers ….. ”
“Gosh” said Truella, leaning back and folding her hands. What an idea.
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
Jeezel was reading the ‘Love Among the Ruins‘ by famous author Liz Tatler, sitting comfortably in her favourite chair.
“Celestine, darling,” Vivienne St Clair exclaimed, her perfectly arched brow lifting as she set down her champagne glass, “you mean to tell me you’ve been lounging by your pool on what might very well be the throne of some Roman goddess? And you wouldn’t let me near it? Honestly, the nerve of you!”
She adjusted her silk scarf with a dramatic flourish, her green eyes sparkling mischievously. “Though I must say, I do admire your determination to get that pool built before I could turn it into some excavation site. Practical as ever, aren’t you, darling?”
As the mention of the mosaic came up, Vivienne St Clair froze mid-sip of her drink, her expression an artful mixture of shock and indignation. “Lost? The Aramanthus Mosaic, lost? Oh, Celestine, this is beyond belief. It’s a tragedy of epic proportions! Worse than the time Aunt Agatha’s pearls were stolen during the garden party—at least we found those under the butler’s cushion.”
She leaned in conspiratorially, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Celestine, my dear, if the Barcelona museum can’t find it, then someone must! Perhaps I should enlist one of my… shall we say… resourceful acquaintances. A charming rogue with a penchant for treasures, perhaps?”
Then, with a dramatic sigh, she sank back into her chair, looking every inch the heroine caught in a whirlwind of intrigue. “Celestine, life is simply too absurd sometimes. Roman ruins, lost mosaics, and a bench fit for an empress—I can hardly keep up.”
Jeezel almost choked on a mint leaf. What a bunch of amateurs, if they had to deal with a tenth of what her coven had been through these last few months…
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
The postcard was marked URGENT and the man in charge of postcards made haste to find Thomas Cromwell but he was nowhere to be found. The postcard was damp and the ink had run, but “send your boatman asap” was decipherable. The man in charge of postcards was not aware of any boatman by the name of Asap, but knowing Thomas it was possible he’d found another bright waif to train, probably one of the urchins hanging about the gates waiting for scraps from the kitchen.
“Asap! Asap!” the postcard man called as he ran down to the river. “Boatman Asap!”
“There be no boatman by that name on the masters barge, lad. Are you speaking my language?” replied boatman Rafe.
“Have you seen the master?” the postcard man asked, “And be quick about you, whatever your name is.”
“Aye, I can tell you that. He’s asleep in the barge.”
“Asleep? Asleep? In the middle of the day? You fool, get out of my way!” the postcard man shoved Rafe out of the way roughly. “My Lord Cromwell! Asleep on the barge in the middle of the day! Call the physician, you dolt!”
“Calm yourself man, I am in no need of assistance,” Cromwell said, yawning and rubbing his eyes as he rose to see what all the shouting was about. Being in two places at once was becoming difficult to conceal. He would have to employ a man of concealment to cover for him while he was in Malove’s body.
I must have a word with Thurston about licorice spiders, Cromwell made a mental note to speak to his cook, while holding out his hand for the postcard. “Thank you, Babbidge”, he said to the man in charge of postcards, giving him a few coins. “You did well to find me. That will be all.”
“Rafe,” Cromwell said to the boatman after a slight pause, “Can you row to the future, do you think?”
“Whatever you say, master, just tell me where it is.”
“Therein lies the problem,” replied Thomas Cromwell, promptly falling asleep again.
While Malove was tucking into some sugared ghosts at the party, she felt an odd plucking sensation, as if one of her spells had been accessed.
A split second later, Cromwell woke up. There was no time to lose gathering ingredients for spells, or laborious complicated rituals. Cromwell made a mental note to streamline the future coven with more efficient simple magic.
“Take all your clothes off, Rafe.” Astonished, the boatman removed his hat and his cloak. Thomas Cromwell did likewise. “Now you put my clothes on, Rafe, and I’ll wear yours. Get out of the boat and go and find somewhere under a bush to hide until I come back. I’m taking your boat. Don’t, under any circumstances, allow yourself to be seen.”
Terrified, the boatman scuttled off to seek cover. He’d heard the rumours about Cromwell’s imminent arrest. He almost laughed maniacally when the thought crossed his mind that he wished he had a mirror to see himself in Lord Cromwell’s hat, but that thought quickly turned to horror when he imagined the hat ~ and the head ~ rolling under the scaffold. God save us all, he whispered, knowing that God wouldn’t.
In a split second, boatman Cromwell found himself rowing the barge through flooded orange groves. I must fill my pockets with oranges for Thurston to make spiced orange tarts, he thought, before I return.
“Ah, there you are, bedraggled wench, you did well to send for assistance. A biblical flood if ever I saw one. There’s just one small problem,” Cromwell said as he pulled Truella into the barge, ” I can save you from drowning, but we must return forthwith to the Thames. I can not put my boatman in danger for long.”
“The Thames in the 1500s?” Truella said stupidly, shivering in her wet clothes.
Cromwell looked at her tight blue breeches and thin unseemly vest. “Your clothes simply won’t do”.
“Some dry ones would be nice,” Truella admitted.
“It’s not that your clothes are too wet,” he replied, frowning. He could send Rafe for a kitchenmaids dress, but then what would the kitchenmaid wear? They had one dress only, not racks of garments like the people in the future. Not unless they were ladies.
Lord Thomas Cromwell cast another eye over Truella. She was a similar build to Anne of Chives.
“If you think I’m dressing up as one of Henry’s wives…”
Laughing, Cromwell admitted she had a point. “No, perhaps not a good idea, especially as he does not well like this one. No need for her to be the death of both of us.”
“Look, just drop me off in Limerick on the way home, it’s barely out of your way. It’s probably raining there too, but at least I won’t have to worry about clothes. I’d look awful in one of those linen caps anyway.”
Cromwell gave her an approving look and agreed to her idea. Within a split second they were in Ireland, but Cromwell was in for a surprise.
“Yoohoo, Frella!” Truella called, delighted to see her friend strolling along the river bank. “It’s me!”
Thomas Cromwell pulled the boat up to the river bank, tossing the rope to Frella’s friend to secure it. Frella’s friend grabbed the rope and froze in astonishment. “You! Fancy seeing YOU here! Uncle Thomas!”
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
After leaving the clamour of her fellow witches behind, Frella took a moment to ground herself after the whirlwind of ideas and plans discussed during their meeting.
As she walked home, her thoughts drifted back to Herma’s cottage. The treasure trove of curiosities in the camphor chest had captivated her imagination, but the trips had grown tiresome, each journey stretching her time and energy. Instead, she gathered a few items to keep at her own cottage—an ever growing collection of mysterious postcards, a brass spyglass, some aged papers hinting at forgotten histories, and of course, the mirror. Each object hummed with potential, calling to her in quiet moments, urging her to dig deeper.
The treasures from Herma’s chest were scattered across her kitchen table; each object felt like a piece of a larger puzzle, and she was determined to fit them together.
As Frella settled into a chair, she felt a sudden urge to inspect the mirror; the thought of its secrets sent a thrill through her, albeit tinged with trepidation.
It was exquisite, its opalescent sheen casting soft reflections across the room. She held it up to the light, watching colours shift within the glass, swirling like a living entity.
“What do you wish to show me this time?” she whispered.
As she gazed into the mirror, her reflection blurred, and she felt a pull—a connection to the past. Images began to form, and Frella found herself once more staring at the same elderly woman, her silver hair wild and glistening.
As the vision settled around her, Frella felt the air shimmer with energy, and the scene began to shift again. She focused intently, eager to grasp every detail.
Oliver Cromwell sat at a grand wooden desk piled high with scrolls and papers, his quill poised in his hand and brow furrowed in concentration. The room bustled with activity—servants hurried to and fro, and shrill laughter floated in from outside, where a gathering seemed to be taking place.
“By the King’s beard, where is the ink?” Cromwell muttered, his voice a deep rumble. With a flourish, he dipped the quill into a small inkwell that looked suspiciously like it had been made from a goat’s hoof.
With great care, he began to write on a piece of parchment. The ornate script flowed from his quill, remarkably elegant despite the chaos around him.
“To my dearest friend,” he wrote, brow twitching with the effort of being both eloquent and succinct. “I trust this missive finds you well, though your ears may be ringing from the ruckus outside. We’ve recently triumphed over the King, and while my duties as Lord Protector keep me occupied, I have stolen a moment to compose this note.”
He paused, casting a wary glance around the room as if expecting eavesdroppers. “I must admit, I have developed a curious fondness for a young lady who claims she can commune with spirits. I suspect she may know a thing or two about the secret lives of witches. If you find yourself in town, perhaps we could investigate together? Bring wine. And if you can manage it, a decent snack. One can hardly strategise on an empty stomach.”
Cromwell’s mouth twitched into a wry smile as he added, “P.S. If you happen to encounter Seraphina, do inform her that I’ll return her mirror just as soon as I’m done with my… experiments. I fear she may not appreciate the ‘creative applications’ I’ve discovered for it.”
With a sigh of resignation, he sealed the parchment with an ornate wax stamp shaped like a owl. “Now, where did I see that errant messenger?” he grumbled, scanning the room irritably.
Frella placed the mirror gently back on the table, her heart pounding. She needed to unravel the mysteries linking her to Seraphina and Cromwell. The time for discovery was upon her, and with each passing moment, she felt the call of her ancestors echoing through the very fabric of her being.
But could she untangle the mystery before her fellow witches set off on yet another ill-fated adventure? She would have to make haste.
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
The whole summer had been a blur. So much so it felt at times to Eris she’d woken up from a dream to enter another one; carefully crafted illusions as heavy as an obfuscating spell.
She could remember the fair, vaguely the Games too —each event felt like another layer of enchantment, casting a surreal pallor over everything. Indeed, the summer was a blur of fleeting images and half-remembered events, like how everyone quickly disbanded to go for a respite and a salutary holiday. Truth be told, the witches of the Quadrivium all needed it after the utter chaotic year they’d been through.
The resurgence of Malové at the fair, left unexplained, had appeared as an evidence. They all needed the tough love that only she as a head of Coven could provide, rather than the micro-management of the well-meaning but people-inapt Austreberthe. To be fair, Eris wasn’t sure Malové was still in charge or not —Eris had never as much struggled with continuity as now; she could feel they were all flipping through and sliding into potential realities opened by the incoming Samhain doorways on the horizons.
Standing on the cusp of autumn, Eris décided to prepare herself for a clarity spell under the iridescent harvest moon.
As the leaves began to turn and the air grew crisp, Eris stood poised to harness the energies of the propitious harvest moon. Preparation for a clarity spell required ascertained precision and intention waved into the elements.
Eris began by setting her space. The clearing near Lake Saimaa was her sanctum, a place where the natural energies converged seamlessly with her own. She laid out a circle of stones, each one representing a different aspect of clarity—vision, truth, focus, and discernment. In the center, she placed a mirror, a symbolic portal to the inner self and higher understanding.
Mandrake, her Norwegian Forest cat, watched with a knowing gaze, his presence grounding her as she moved through the rituals. Echo, the familiar sprite, flitted about, ensuring everything was in place.
“Mandrake, guard the perimeter,” Eris instructed. The cat slinked off into the shadows, his eyes glowing with an otherworldly light.
Eris took a deep breath and began to chant, her voice steady and resonant:
“By the light of the harvest moon,
I call forth clarity, swift and soon.
Let fog disperse and shadows flee,
Reveal the truth, illuminate me.”She sprinkled dried hellebores around the mirror, their protective and healing properties amplifying the spell’s potency. The hellebores, collected from Normandy, held within them the strength of her Viking ancestors and the promise of Imbolc’s rebirth. They were not just flowers; they were talismans of resilience and transformation.
As the moon reached its zenith, Eris held a vial of enchanted water. She poured it over the mirror, watching as the surface shimmered and rippled, reflecting the moonlight with an ethereal glow. The water, drawn from the depths of Lake Saimaa, was imbued with the ancient magic of the land.
Eris closed her eyes and focused on her intentions. She saw the faces of her sisters at the Quadrivium Emporium, each one struggling with their own burdens. Stalkers, postcards, camphor chests, ever prancing reindeers high on mushrooms. She saw the chaotic energies of early spring, swirling, and the potential and peril they carried. She saw Malové’s stern visage, a reminder of the standards they were meant to uphold, and a reminder to make more magical rejuvenating cream.
“Show me the path,” she whispered. “Guide me through the haze.”
The mirror began to clear, the ripples settling into a smooth, reflective surface. Images started to form—visions of the future, hints of what lay ahead. She saw herself within the coven with renewed purpose, her objectives clear and her drive rekindled. She saw her sisters working in harmony, each one contributing their unique strengths to the collective power.
The clarity spell was working, the fog lifting to reveal the roadmap she needed. Decisions that once seemed insurmountable now appeared manageable, their resolutions within grasp. The inefficiencies plaguing their organization were laid bare, offering a blueprint for the reforms necessary to streamline their efforts.
Eris opened her eyes, the vision fading yet leaving an indelible mark on her mind. She felt a surge of confidence, a sense of direction that had been sorely lacking.
“Thank you,” she murmured to the moon, to the elements, to the spirits that had guided her.
As she began to dismantle the circle, Echo fluttered down to her shoulder, a small smile on her ethereal face. Mandrake emerged from the shadows, his eyes reflecting the calm and order Eris had sought to instill.
“Well done, Eris,” Echo said softly. “The road ahead is clearer now. The harvest moon has gifted you its wisdom.”
Eris nodded, feeling ready as autumn would be a season of action, of turning vision into reality.
In reply to: The Elusive Samuel Housley and Other Family Stories
Youlgreave
The Frost Family and The Big Snow
The Youlgreave parish registers are said to be the most complete and interesting in the country. Starting in 1558, they are still largely intact today.
“The future historian of this parish will find a vast stock of material ready to hand, and if such a work was ever accomplished it would once more be seen how the history of even a remote village is but the history of the nation in little; how national victories were announced on the church bells, and national disasters by the proclamation of a form of prayer…”
J. Charles Cox, Notes on the Churches of Derbyshire, 1877.
Although the Youlgreave parish registers are available online on microfilm, just the baptisms, marriages and burials are provided on the genealogy websites. However, I found some excerpts from the churchwardens accounts in a couple of old books, The Reliquary 1864, and Notes on Derbyshire Churches 1877.
Hannah Keeling, my 4x great grandmother, was born in Youlgreave, Derbyshire, in 1767. In 1791 she married Edward Lees of Hartington, Derbyshire, a village seven and a half miles south west of Youlgreave. Edward and Hannah’s daughter Sarah Lees, born in Hartington in 1808, married Francis Featherstone in 1835. The Featherstone’s were farmers. Their daughter Emma Featherstone married John Marshall from Elton. Elton is just three miles from Youlgreave, and there are a great many Marshall’s in the Youlgreave parish registers, some no doubt distantly related to ours.
Hannah Keeling’s parents were John Keeling 1734-1823, and Ellen Frost 1739-1805, both of Youlgreave.
On the burial entry in the parish registers in Youlgreave in 1823, John Keeling was 88 years old when he died, and was the “late parish clerk”, indicating that my 5x great grandfather played a part in compiling the “best parish registers in the country”. In 1762 John’s father in law John Frost died intestate, and John Keeling, cordwainer, co signed the documents with his mother in law Ann. John Keeling was a shoe maker and a parish clerk.
John Keeling’s father was Thomas Keeling, baptised on the 9th of March 1709 in Youlgreave and his parents were John Keeling and Ann Ashmore. John and Ann were married on the 6th April 1708. Some of the transcriptions have Thomas baptised in March 1708, which would be a month before his parents married. However, this was before the Julian calendar was replaced by the Gregorian calendar, and prior to 1752 the new year started on the 25th of March, therefore the 9th of March 1708 was eleven months after the 6th April 1708.
Thomas Keeling married Dorothy, which we know from the baptism of John Keeling in 1734, but I have not been able to find their marriage recorded. Until I can find my 6x great grandmother Dorothy’s maiden name, I am unable to trace her family further back.
Unfortunately I haven’t found a baptism for Thomas’s father John Keeling, despite that there are Keelings in the Youlgrave registers in the early 1600s, possibly it is one of the few illegible entries in these registers.
The Frosts of Youlgreave
Ellen Frost’s father was John Frost, born in Youlgreave in 1707. John married Ann Staley of Elton in 1733 in Youlgreave.
(Note that this part of the family tree is the Marshall side, but we also have Staley’s in Elton on the Warren side. Our branch of the Elton Staley’s moved to Stapenhill in the mid 1700s. Robert Staley, born 1711 in Elton, died in Stapenhill in 1795. There are many Staley’s in the Youlgreave parish registers, going back to the late 1500s.)
John Frost (my 6x great grandfather), miner, died intestate in 1762 in Youlgreave. Miner in this case no doubt means a lead miner, mining his own land (as John Marshall’s father John was in Elton. On the 1851 census John Marshall senior was mining 9 acres). Ann Frost, as the widow and relict of the said deceased John Frost, claimed the right of administration of his estate. Ann Frost (nee Staley) signed her own name, somewhat unusual for a woman to be able to write in 1762, as well as her son in law John Keeling.
John’s parents were David Frost and Ann. David was baptised in 1665 in Youlgreave. Once again, I have not found a marriage for David and Ann so I am unable to continue further back with her family. Marriages were often held in the parish of the bride, and perhaps those neighbouring parish records from the 1600s haven’t survived.
David’s parents were William Frost and Ellen (or Ellin, or Helen, depending on how the parish clerk chose to spell it). Once again, their marriage hasn’t been found, but was probably in a neighbouring parish.
William Frost’s wife Ellen, my 8x great grandmother, died in Youlgreave in 1713. In her will she left her daughter Catherine £20. Catherine was born in 1665 and was apparently unmarried at the age of 48 in 1713. She named her son Isaac Frost (born in 1662) executor, and left him the remainder of her “goods, chattels and cattle”.
William Frost was baptised in Youlgreave in 1627, his parents were William Frost and Anne.
William Frost senior, husbandman, was probably born circa 1600, and died intestate in 1648 in Middleton, Youlgreave. His widow Anna was named in the document. On the compilation of the inventory of his goods, Thomas Garratt, Will Melland and A Kidiard are named.(Husbandman: The old word for a farmer below the rank of yeoman. A husbandman usually held his land by copyhold or leasehold tenure and may be regarded as the ‘average farmer in his locality’. The words ‘yeoman’ and ‘husbandman’ were gradually replaced in the later 18th and 19th centuries by ‘farmer’.)
Unable to find a baptism for William Frost born circa 1600, I read through all the pages of the Youlgreave parish registers from 1558 to 1610. Despite the good condition of these registers, there are a number of illegible entries. There were three Frost families baptising children during this timeframe and one of these is likely to be Willliam’s.
Baptisms:
1581 Eliz Frost, father Michael.
1582 Francis f Michael. (must have died in infancy)
1582 Margaret f William.
1585 Francis f Michael.
1586 John f Nicholas.
1588 Barbara f Michael.
1590 Francis f Nicholas.
1591 Joane f Michael.
1594 John f Michael.
1598 George f Michael.
1600 Fredericke (female!) f William.Marriages in Youlgreave which could be William’s parents:
1579 Michael Frost Eliz Staley
1587 Edward Frost Katherine Hall
1600 Nicholas Frost Katherine Hardy.
1606 John Frost Eliz Hanson.Michael Frost of Youlgreave is mentioned on the Derbyshire Muster Rolls in 1585.
(Muster records: 1522-1649. The militia muster rolls listed all those liable for military service.)
Frideswide:
A burial is recorded in 1584 for Frideswide Frost (female) father Michael. As the father is named, this indicates that Frideswide was a child.
(Frithuswith, commonly Frideswide c. 650 – 19 October 727), was an English princess and abbess. She is credited as the foundress of a monastery later incorporated into Christ Church, Oxford. She was the daughter of a sub-king of a Merica named Dida of Eynsham whose lands occupied western Oxfordshire and the upper reaches of the River Thames.)
An unusual name, and certainly very different from the usual names of the Frost siblings. As I did not find a baptism for her, I wondered if perhaps she died too soon for a baptism and was given a saints name, in the hope that it would help in the afterlife, given the beliefs of the times. Or perhaps it wasn’t an unusual name at the time in Youlgreave. A Fridesweda Gilbert was buried in Youlgreave in 1604, the spinster daughter of Francis Gilbert. There is a small brass effigy in the church, underneath is written “Frideswide Gilbert to the grave, Hath resigned her earthly part…”
J. Charles Cox, Notes on the Churches of Derbyshire, 1877.
King James
A parish register entry in 1603:
“1603 King James of Skottland was proclaimed kinge of England, France and Ireland at Bakewell upon Monday being the 29th of March 1603.” (March 1603 would be 1604, because of the Julian calendar in use at the time.)
The Big Snow
“This year 1614/5 January 16th began the greatest snow whichever fell uppon the earth within man’s memorye. It covered the earth fyve quarters deep uppon the playne. And for heaps or drifts of snow, they were very deep; so that passengers both horse or foot passed over yates, hedges and walles. ….The spring was so cold and so late that much cattel was in very great danger and some died….”
From the Youlgreave parish registers.
Our ancestor William Frost born circa 1600 would have been a teenager during the big snow.
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
The rainbow was neon bright, one end disappearing behind a spinney in the distance, and the other end landing squarely in the middle of the glamping pods. A good sign! thought Truella, the first of the coven to arrive. For a moment she imagined herself digging a hole right there, and finding the elusive pot of gold. I wouldn’t be able to do that in a fancy hotel. For once, Truella was happy with Austreberthe’s choice. A week or two in a green field sounded relaxing, refreshing. So much more to her taste than the endless fitted carpets, closed windows, and artifically controlled air blasting out of metal grilles in hotels.
Taking a deep breath of cool fresh air, she surveyed the site before checking into reception. The neighbouring fields were full of cows, perfect for her to practice her Bubona spells on before she set up her Goddess Spell Booth. The Goddess spell tents were to be open in the evenings, after the games each day, along with other stalls selling handicrafts, homemade cakes and jams, wines and potions, trinkets and souvenirs, and all the other tat that people on holiday enjoyed browsing. Obviously the coven would have a stall selling incense. No doubt Austreberthe would have hatched some hard sell plan for that.
Inside the reception office, Truella pinged the bell and waited for someone to attend. The registration book was open on the counter and Truella craned her neck to read the names on the list. She planned to ask for a pod in a far corner, near the hedgerow. It might make it easier to slip out unnoticed, if she should have a mind to do so. The door behind the counter opened and a young man appeared, smiling a welcome. But not before Truella had seen the name on the list. She sucked her breath in sharply. Malove! Nobody was expecting her. Did Austreberthe know?
“Welcome to Finnegan’s Farm Glampsite, I’m Liam,” said the young man, pushing long mousy hair out of his eyes, “You’ve a booking I take it, because we’re fully booked up for the next fortnight. Because of the Games, you see.”
Replying that she did, Truella asked for a pod in the furthest corner. Liam looked at a list and frowned. “The corners are all taken, I’m afraid. But I tell you what,” he said, “As you’re the first to arrive I’ll swap your pod, let’s see…” He scanned the list. “Ah yes, the late booking. I can put you in the one we’ve assigned to Mrs …Malone I think it says, and put her in yours.”
“Thank you very much, Liam,” Truella said as he handed her a key with a big wooden tag with the number 33 etched on it.
“I’ll carry your bags over and show you where it is, follow me.”
