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December 3 ^rd

^{( Hey, that’s 12.3, might be a hint for growth… Yurick)}

A communication about coordinate points, and how to travel between idea clusters

As the story starts to develop in a rapid and very intertwined manner, much like waves in the ocean, overlapping and rippling from and to many directions, Yurick became concerned that it may be difficult to keep track of, or rather to retain an ability to graciously navigate in it.

Let us imagine for a moment. Take your own life. It is composed of a multitude of moments. Your construct of linear time gives you the impression that there is a continuous succession or stream of moments.
In a manner of speaking, it is easier for you to grok the concept of multiple points of attention for your naturally associate them with your space. You can easily envision your many focuses happening all at once in a variety of places, towns or countries, and having a possibility to zoom in and out, so that to encompass more than your single current focus.
But what you do in engaging your conceptualization with your focuses would be equally valid were you to engage it in relation to that single focus that is you, in all of its moments of actualization.
But that would be far less familiar, as you identify quite strongly with that construct of time.

As that story unfolds, you discover that there are an infinity of points of attention dispersed in many many comments, and one comment can include many more than one point of attention itself. What you would be tempted to do, for it is something that is very automatic in your current associations, would be to attempt to draw lines between the points, to recreate a linearity, and thus facilitate your understanding of a certain action.

This is unnecessary and within your current movement of expansion of awareness would be counterproductive.

But you are familiar with that concept of coordinate points. For most of you, you once again associate them strongly with the space continuum, but they could be used in many many other situations. That story being one of them.
The coordinate points are in a manner of speaking, conglomerate of very coherent energy; they would not be “points” per se, but rather high concentration of these points of attention that your attempt to link together.
As such, they become the links that you are in search of, for in that drawing of energy points of similar expressions, they also become passageways between the associations that the points are linked to.
As a matter of fact, the “point” that you come to identify to the concentrated cluster of points would rather be a tone representative of that coherent energy that you can use to activate the links contained within that cluster of points.

That would be the reason why Yurick, in coming to understand that concept, has slightly adapted the original cloud of tags in the story, so that it can expand and be used to access the coordinate points that the tags are, quite simply.

Hank, the saloon pianist, was hopelessly in love with Anna.

But she had so many wooers, I hadn’t dared say how much he loved the blond dancer. For fear of public ridicule mostly, as he didn’t think he was very good-looking, with his horse-face… Not that she really cared with all these men having gone into her bed. But he couldn’t take the risk. Better a life in her shadow than taking a chance and spoil everything.

He had always been here to care for her.
When that young one had came to dance too, he’d been the one to make it easy for them. Or he thought he did…
What was annoying Anna the most was that the newcomer would be using a blond wig and that might eclipse her. Of course, that wasn’t what Anna had said, but Hank knew her well enough to understand.
He was the one coming up with that idea of Twilight as a stage name for the other one, keeping the shining Dawn for Anna. Like sisters, yet worlds apart. Apparently they both had found the idea great, and even if for Hank, Dawn and Twilight were different movements of the same seesaw, for Anna, it was pretty obvious that Dawn came before Twilight.

When Anna had been fat with her blue-eyed baby boy, he had been providing her some shelter for some time. It was so obvious for everybody that nothing could happen between them… Anna was oblivious, trying to get herself a proper husband. She had almost convinced that Jo that he was the father. Hopefully Hank had thwarted the attempt. He had his own idea of who was the father, and that wasn’t something to be proud of.
And Hank had better keep his mouth shut, as the guy in question wasn’t one to allow being tickled on such sensitive subjects.
In the end, Anna got fed up with all his attentions, called him a sticky leech. How ungrateful…

Now she was with that old bloke… A fat half-bald guy with long unkempt greyish greasy hair who had lost his wife, eloped with their former neighbour. The story had provided a good laugh to everyone who was well aware of it. But somehow Anna took compassion for that Manuel — who was nicknamed the Bar Rook due to his pressing penchant for alcoholic beverages.

Hank was finding Twilight more interesting… Free of romantic bonds and dazzlingly beautiful as she was growing.
Once in the beginning of her representation he had found her crying behind the bar, after having been hauled around by Anna once again.

She had told him an interesting story about her wig. It was a gift from her mother’s foster sister. The two women had suckled the same Ol’ Granny Lucy and had kept very close over the years. But her mother’s foster sister had a tough life, and she made a business of selling her golden hair to make wigs. Twilight’s was one of those. A gift from this aunt, which was all the more dear and precious to her. She had said to Twilight that it would draw to her good fortune, and fame too…
It was easy for Hank to imagine that to become true.

Oörlaith was picking star-thistles buds that were growing on the ruins in the Marshes. She had always felt attracted by the putrid Marshes, for many reasons.
There was something in her own demeanour that made creatures and people comfortable around her, and she had always felt in herself that natural balancing and accepting qualities that makes a good Healer.
But it was a complex matter, and her choices of explorations had always stirred much incomprehension in the various people she had met over her life. And she had met lots.

Of course, the first ones where her own parents. They were opulent burgomasters of one of the major towns of Cromash Tur, and from the date of her birth, Oörlaith was destined to marry one of the Warlords of these regions. Something that was sound and portent of good fortune, as her parents kept saying. Warlords were always in need of fundings for their expeditions, and in exchange would be providing a modicum of security for the commerce and other activities. It was thus all good for everybody. Good exchange of practices.

But very early in life she had known her path was not that one.
Nothing as plain and simple… and boring! one must admit. Her parents would have not, though.

As far as she remembered, she first had a living proof of her potentials when she healed a small bird back to life. A miracle, for the poor thing had been maimed by an rabid chipmog pillaging birds nests for eggs, and throwing the little hatched bird off the branches. Chipmogs were no more evil than the bird she knew that, and their show-offy nature was even a blessing in disguise, as she had been quickly alerted of the incident.
She was four year-old.

Only later did she became aware of how she could best learn to develop her magical potentials. Her parents wouldn’t have let her know about such things as how to become a Grand Sorceress, for they did not really know much about it, and also for it was considered unfitting to her rank. “Simpletons”, she couldn’t help but think.
But the day she became aware of the legendary Island of Mörk, she instantly set her goal to be counted among the best of their Learned Ones, whatever the price for her.

And notwithstanding her relatively young age, she got by her own to the Island, and was trained there too… But then again, it was not as easy, as she rebelled against some of the Laws of Magic passed down by the Teachers, Laws that were thick and dry as a century old grimorium full of abstruse formulæ.
Hopefully, she ended up with misfits as much she was, her dear sisters Roselÿn and Malvina.

When it was time for them to part on their own adventures, she again surprised many (but not her dear sisters) by stating that she would settle near the Marshes. The legends surrounding this place, as well as the huge potential for practicing healing in one of the most difficult environments were immense incentives for her.
The Teachers had warned her of the immense energy that filtered in these lands, as it was a coordinate point where things had already gone awry in the past. She had almost laughed at them. Of course she was aware, that was all about that. Definitely not for the faint of hearts.

Her companion Andarión, who was in his/her preferred shape a majestic water dragon, as wise as it was a crackpot at times, had been aware of her intentions as soon as they had first met. They had chosen each other quite purposefully, though she was not entirely aware of her role in these discoveries. But undoubtedly he was an asset.

And as she was picking her mauve star-thistles, humming like a raving madwoman, her sharp eye was on the look for the legendary golden one which would mean the dawn of a new Era…

New Venice, November 2101

Midora was sleeping peacefully in her baby’s bed, and Oscar was dozing on the sofa, exhausted by his new role as a mother.

Bart was slowly finding himself back to his old studies. Just before Oscar became pregnant with their child, he was occupied with an old parchment his mother Indy had given to him.
She had said they had found it years ago with Oscar’s mum, her friend Eugenia. It was under a glass frame, among many other stuff she had accumulated along the years, mundane bric-a-brac flirting with sublime antiques —such was her mother strange decorative style…
Bart had known the parchment all his life, and her mother had sworn he would have it when the time would be right. During all this time he had thought she would most probably forget it altogether.

When Bill, his father had disengaged, two years before (only two months before the New Century’s festivities, at the age of 79) Indy had said she needed to make some room in her apartment, and get rid of old things which were full of memories. After all, she was only 49, and Bill hadn’t wanted to see her wither in sadness, that would be such a waste.
She had given him the old parchment.

Bart had always been so close to his mother, probably because she had him so young. She was 16 when they had married with Bill, and Bart was born right after. Of course, she always played the old flattery trick when people said she must be his big sister; it wasn’t actually far from the truth.

When he was younger, Bart had fearful dreams, of dying in atrocious pain, full of rash, at a young age in an alien and sunny place.
Curious as to what hint it may have been, Indy had been connecting with him to the energy of the dream. And together, they had tried to find the reason of that manifestation in the young boy’s dreams.
Despite her having such a fleeting memory, India Louise was skilled at connecting to other focuses, and particularly group ones, and Bart had found many information thanks to her. And the fearful dreams had disappeared.
He had found he was a young prince heir of the throne of Egypt, who was supposed to marry his sister. But both had died very suddenly. It was not quite clear as to whether the illness was the result of a plot from their father Pharaoh’s enemies, but the death was very unpleasant.
So unlike Bill’s disengagement, which was peaceful and full of love.

So yes, people were not far from the truth when they saw them as brother and sister.
According to Indy, the parchment was found within a cache inside the sister mummy’s sarcophagus, and might be linked to their shared focus. But her own psychic skills only extended as far as to notice connections, not as to go into more depths. That investigation, he would be able to do.

Egypt, 2657 B.C.

Lekshen had finished writing down what the long snouted god of his dream, Set had dictated to him.

It was a strange story, of Set being the god of the pariahs, throwing down structures of the Holy and the Truth, for the sake of expansion. Lekshen couldn’t understand all of what he had been talked into writing, but he had felt an intense activity and thrusts of gushing energy passing through him.

He needed sleep before hiding the text with the mummy.

Paris, 2007

That symbol, Quintin had dreamt repeatedly about it… It was a tile, he was sure. It could be oriented in two ways, and, depending on its orientation, it meant either injection or ejection of energy structures. It was linked to the family of the Speakers.

Let’s insert it again then, he smiled to himself.

When he connected with the symbols written on the parchment, Bartholomew was astounded. The energy was so familiar.
There was a book coming from his mother. She had inherited it from her aunt, Guiny… She probably got it herself from her mother Margaret, or perhaps her step-mother Becky… Bart wasn’t too sure…

Finally, he found it. Inside the cover, there was a dedication. To you, dear Becky, happy birthday! With love, Kathy (2017).
Kathy, Kathy… A flash of a rainbow-coloured anaconda into Bart’s mind… Must have been one of Dory’s friends.

“There was once a god who was not a god — who was not a god, for you are dealing with legends,” he said, nearly whispering. “There was a god in ancient Egypt, and his name was Seth, and he was disreputable. And he threw aside establishments, whenever other gods rose up and said, “We are the truth, we are pure and we are holy,” this disreputable god stood up, and with a voice like thunder, said: “You are nincompoops!”

“And the other gods did not like him,” Seth continued in his story-telling whisper, “and whenever they set up their altars, he came like thunder, but playfully, and tossed the altars asunder, and he said “Storms are natural, and good, and a part of the earth, even as placid skies are. Winds are good. Questions are good. Males and females are good. Even gods and demons are good, if you must believe in demons. But, structures are limited!”.

“And so this god, who was not a god, called Seth, went about kicking apart the structures, and he gathered about him others who kicked apart the structures. And they were themselves, whether they were male or female. Whether they thought of themselves as good or bad, or summer or winter, or as old or as young, they were creators. They were questioners.

“And whenever another personality set itself up and said, “I am the god before you, and my word is law,” then Seth went about saying, “You are a nincompoop,” and began to kick apart the structures. And so you are yourselves, in your way, all Seths, for you kick apart the structures, and you are the black sheep of the religions, and the black sheep of the scientists, and the black sheep of the physicians, and the black sheep of the your mothers and your fathers, and your sisters and your brothers.

“And yet, the mothers and the fathers and the sisters and the brothers listen,” Seth went on in that quiet voice in that quiet room. “for they do not have the courage to be the black sheep…”

Conversations With Seth, Volume 1, Chapter 9, by Susan Watkins

Mmmm, Captain,… isn’t that legend a bit long-winded? Tomkin had asked to Captain Bone.

It had been six nights now that the Captain had told bits of that legend to Tomkin, and even if it was entertaining, Tomkin was more and more impatient to get back to meatier stuff, like galleons full of ancient magical treasures, corsairs from the Warring Kingdoms coasts, strange unknown races from far-off lands… that would be more mouth-watering than this endless legend…

Captain Bone had laughed.

— Aaaaah, Tomkin… of course you know I like to tell long stories, and make them longer each time I recall them, but you see, there is also a point in all of that adventure. Mævel’s story is also the story of all of us in a way. Of course, I could tell you how it ends, but in a way it never really ends. More important is for you to see it unfold and that you appreciate the unfolding. The ending is not important in a way. Each and every time this story is recalled, it is different, because it adapts to what is happening right now. Do you see?
— So what is the point of telling me that story? It was supposed to tell me something about this strange knotted object, but I don’t see any link.
— Ahahahaha, the point is precisely that Tomkin. I am telling you my story, but this object makes you hear your own story through my words.

Now, Tomkin Sharple was squatting on the sand near the bonfire lit by Badul’s crew, and he was recalling the words from the Captain. At that time, when he didn’t know a thing about that strange magical object, he had not understood a thing of what the Captain had said.
But now, it started to make sense, some sense at least. Each time the Captain had told him bits of the legend, Tomkin had been fidgeting the strange object, making the Captain smile. Perhaps the object’s magic was not only acting as a translation device…
There was something more about it. He was no longer sure that the Captain’s story had been what he was recalling. Perhaps it was completely different, and he had translated it…
Still, the object had apparently helped him understand what Badul and his men wanted, so it was translating truthfully. But what was a faithful translation?

Then, a flash came into Tomkin’s mind. The Captain had given the object to him. He’d said it was about connections. Being connected.
Till then, Tomkin had been the only one to touch it. He had not even revealed the source of his gift to Badul.
But in the Captain’s case, both of them had been touching it. In sharing that link, they had extended trust to each other, and somehow, they had been mirrors for each other. Perhaps that was what Captain Bone meant when he said that Tomkin was hearing his own story through the Captain’s words.

Tomkin laid down on the warm sand, looking at the clear starry night.

— The legend of Mævel — (Part VI)

Inside the warm burrow, Mævel found a bed of dry leaves and tender moss. She could see some light from the moon, coming through holes in the ground, which were bringing in some fresh air too. Cuddling comfortably into the makeshift bed, she started to sleep peacefully, waiting for her friend the blue fox to come back.

Half-asleep on the beach, Tomkin was wondering… What had happened the next morning… This was fuzzy in this memory, as if the events were moving and reorganising themselves. All that he remember was that Mævel had met the blue fox, but there were myriads of possible events, and all of them were possible, dancing now in front of him.
He could chose any of them… But, would that make the story the same?
Then he recalled that it was his own story… So why make it difficult then…

The voice of Captain Bone was resounding in his ear “You find value in hardships, and value is important to you and our kind. In these lands full of magic, we could just do anything, but somehow you’ll find that rare are the people who constantly use magic. Because when magic is used to make things happen instantaneously, it shifts everything around it to accommodate the changes asked by the summoner of the magic. And it can be overwhelming when too big are the differences between the too states, as we are accustomed to live within a continuity. That’s why I tell you to enjoy the ride of that legend.
Think of it… You could be Emperor of all Lands if you knew how to use magic for such a feat. But would you do that instantaneously? Slim chances. You wouldn’t know how to behave as an Emperor, and on top of that, you probably would find the new aspect of you who is an Emperor to be overwhelming to your present aspect of little Tomkin.”

Okay, Tomkin said… No need to skip directly to the last part… she meets the blue fox in his den, and Mævel learns about the curse of the fox.

— Oh, really? Mævel was saying
— Yes, I was a bit of a fool… the blue fox was telling her. But, the silver lining is that there is a way to counteract the curse. But I will need your help again, if you want.
— I want to help you.
— Fine. You know about Shaint Lejüs Festival?
— Mmm, yes, my parents told me about that. It’s the Day of the Forgotten, isn’t it?
— and of the Accursed Ones.
— Oh…
— That special day of the year, the Gates of Lejüs’ Realm are opened and Forgotten and Accursed Ones are given a chance to be Remembered or Graced.
— Every year? Why then aren’t all of them Remembered?
— Mostly because the Living Ones dread this day. They are the only ones to be able to free the Demanders, and they quickly felt haunted by the Demanders. So they did rituals to keep the Demanders away from them, as certainly your human parents did.
— Yes, I remember now…
— There is another reason actually. Forgotten Ones can only be Remembered when they recover their true name, and only a strong bond like love or some potent magic can force it out of Lejüs’ graps.
— And Accursed Ones?
— For them to be Graced, they need to do one pure act of altruism.
— A simple act?
— Don’t be fooled, it’s not as simple as it seems. See, I tried to rescue a woman who was drowning herself into the river, but that hunter thought I was attacking her… The fact was that she was willing to be Forgotten, and that my act was not purely altruistic.
— How so? You probably saved her life?
— Yes, but that was not what she wanted, and when she cried that I let go of her, I only wanted her out of the waters, because of me…
— I understand. And how can I help?
— One altruistic act for me would be to help a Forgotten One to be Remembered. That’s what they ask for, but it’s difficult for them to get past the barriers of the Living Ones.
— Shaint Lejüs Festival is tomorrow…
— Yes, have as much rest as you need, Mæ. We will see tomorrow what will occur…

On Mount Elok’ram, the old abbot Hrih Chokyam Lin’potshee was gardening.

Despite his old age, and his being at the head of the Monastery, Hrih Chokyam was always doing his hour of gardening with great application and talent, as was asked to everyone, from the youngest to the oldest monks studying here.
The Monastery was a place of healing and teaching, dedicated to Margilonia, the Elder Goddess thought to have created the Earths. As a matter of fact, gardening was the simplest —yet most effective— way to fully appreciate the grandness and the interconnectedness of the whole of creation.

Hrih Chokyam remembered when he was a little child in the vast fertile plateaus in the Eastern part of Dam Adbor, bordering the high mountains. He had always loved the mountains, better than the plains, or the towns where the wars and plots were fomented endlessly. So he was wandering many times in the mountains, to collect herbs and also just for the fun and exhilaration of climbing higher and higher, and seeing the world as a small thing that could be placed into his hands.
His parents had wanted him to become a farmer, but some wealthy neighbours had thought he was showing signs of being able to do much better, and even proposed to have him pursue a career in the administration of Dam Adbor’s capital.
Young Hrih had considered the proposition for some time, and one day, went deep into the mountains to make his decision.
There he’d got this powerful connection with an enveloping warm manifestation of Margilonia, who prompted him to go higher than anyone had ever been on the top of the mountains, were a natural point of great potential magical energy was. Here, she had conveyed to him, he would have a monastery built, a perfectly clear channel for this yet untaped magical energy.

Ninety nine years ago that was.
Hrih had been higher than any human had ever been, in the search of this point, knowing he would feel it resonate with him. The mountains, he had learned were not as empty as humans had thought, and there were many other kinds of sentient beings living here, far from the wars below.
Interestingly, assisted by these magical sentient creatures and Margilonia’s energies, building the structure had been easy. He had never thought harnessing magic would be that easy, perhaps just because the traveling magicians coming at times in the village to do some healing or just funfair exhibitions were making that very difficult, and requiring lots of training.

The truth was, magic was everywhere, only people had become blind to it, or just lazy to use it. But old Hrih, even if his eyes were not as sharp as they used to be, could see it clear as day. Magic was in everything. Especially in one’s own very existence.
That was the first of the things people coming to learn in the monastery had to understand. Deceptively simple, yet the most difficult lesson for many of them. He had to admit, he had struggled quite a bit with it too, during the endless wandering into the vast mountains. But there had always been a root to eat, or some fresh mushrooms or eggs apparently left here just for him… He laughed now, thinking of it.

Hrih’s life had been so fulfilling. He knew he was weak now, and would not see the springing season, and he was thinking he had to choose someone to take care of the monastery. Few people went to stay here, for as they had learned and applied what was to learn, their own passion was coming back to them, and they would not need to stay any longer.

But a few days ago, a young one had come, announced to old Hrih by a singing rosy finch.
As usual, all was provided when things were ready for it.
Hrih had no doubt that the hesitant young man would be the next one to hold the title of Lin’potshee, or “Precious Elder”.

November, 1 ^st 2057

Sean took another glass of scotch to give him some courage to call.

— It’s your twelfth now, that’s supposed to give you courage
— Oh, Maggie, my live is such a mess…
— It’s not, and you know it. Look at all our beautiful children, and Becky who went through so much just out of love for you…

Sean didn’t know whether he was actually seeing the ghost of his deceased wife, or a projection of her, still alive in another part of the Universe, but she always had been a comforting presence.
He had started to see her a few months after her disappearance.
Yes, during that T.R.A.P. expedition, yeah, “live-changing experience” they had said… True, too true… Perhaps the electromagnetic field had messed up with his brains, but now he could see her clear as day.

That had been a bit freaky in the beginning, and when they made love with Becky, he was a bit anxious to see her appear not invited. But Margaret had been discrete, well mostly. At times, he wondered if she had not sneaked into the bedroom and merged her energies with Becky’s, just to be closer to him… Becky’s acts did not always make sense anyway, so that was hardly a criterion to judge of that.

All his live had been like that. A jumble of incoherent stuff. Oh, he had enjoyed it, especially at the beginning. His father Lord Wrick was obsessed with the Shift, and had found some ancient knowledge in his youth. Mostly rubbish by nowadays standards, bunches of rotten books of prophecies handed down to a few chosen ones, who were supposed to be forewarned of doom to come. Now, they knew that they were only a wake up call, but at that time, it was another thing altogether.

Of course, the wealth accumulated over the centuries by the Wrick family had been helpful to access these precious archaeological documents. A few of them had played a key role.
For instance, the in-extenso Life and Deeds of Lord Gustard Willoughby Fergusson, a rare version of the diary of Lord Fergusson, annotated by his daughter, Illi, was telling an account of history much different than the one romanced after his death by his wife Floribunda von Grott.
Thanks to it, Lord Wrick had been able to acquire some inkling as to ancient treasures. Old fool…
It had killed his wife, Artemisia, devastated by the madness of her husband, and it had alienated the other part of the family too.
But all that counted was to make the discoveries, and perhaps enlight the masses.

Sean had never really forgave his father that he wanted to utilise Margaret and have her fit into his plans of grandeur. Of course, his father had willingly accepted the union, and despite all appearances (for the sake of those rapacious journalists) he had even pushed Sean to do it quickly. But all he was really interested in was her precious discoveries.

— Oh, but I was not innocent, Sean
— I know Maggie, you were obsessed by what we could offer to you, especially when you read about the botanical experiments in the deserts, which were related in that old book. But still…
— We all had grown up through that, you know…
— Yes, and what showed me that, was that I was concerned that the old vampire would suck my own children into his web, but Peregrine was too free for that, and Guinevere preferred to live her live outside of this madness too.
— Becky had a good influence. Do me a favour, be kind to her.
— You know what?… Yes of course you’d know,… but let me tell you, so that we can laugh together… I found myself really happy and free when I stole the two magical books out of the Old Fool’s clutch. God knows how he acquired them, but one thing was sure, he was obsessed with them. I couldn’t get the mummy, but the books were a great take.
— And a funny idea to give them to your cousin…
— Yes, Dorean was the perfect person. I couldn’t leave them anywhere, my father would have found them again. At least he wasn’t in good terms with his brother and sister-in-law, so they were safe in their care. And at least, they were more grounded than my father, the perfect keepers for the books… I’m wondering what happened to them…
— That will upset you, but Perry’s twins got them.
— Oh really?
— Yes, and they are having fun with them, as was intended.
— That’s fine then, and we are less obsessed now than we were before, so I guess my father isn’t as much as a pain in the butt as he was…
— You father meant good
— Yes, like everyone, but why can’t we leave people alone at times? People can sort out their issues without the commiseration, and the good intentions… It’s poison even worse… Like I can drink and still be healthy, and nice, and…

Sean started to sob.

— I know, darling, but you’re as much of a sore as your father was… You focus so much on what’s not going right, and you don’t even appreciate that you can talk with your departed wife… That was nothing as easy in the old days.
— Do you think my father talks with mum to?
— I think he would be too proud to admit he is sorry… That may hinder the communication… But Arty wouldn’t bear grudge now. When we let go of the physical, things become so clear, we can only be accepting of everything. Perhaps you prefer to wait for your father to cross over? I can tell you something, that won’t be easier. That much I know.
— You’re right. It’s just that I don’t know how to start…
— Be yourself, talk about what you enjoy, where is your passion now… Perhaps that is the problem. You’re drowning your passion in your scotch.
— You’re right… I’ll tell him Léan will have a baby.
— Oh, he’ll love it!
— How time flies… sighed Sean, I still remember the little sweetie as a blue-eyed laughing baby herself, with Oliver and Illana. She was the only one of the triplet to have inherited her mother’s dark complexion. She’s so beautiful…
— Let’s call your father darling
— Yes, let’s call him.

Lord Wrick had not expected to received that call. Well, he had renounced it so long ago.
He had been a bit shaken, but also relieved. He had proposed, on an impulse, to invite that whole part of the family he barely knew, Sean’s new partner, and all their children for next Christmas in the castle. Sean had told him they would probably come with Becky but that the children were now having their own lives, and it would have to be for another time.

Lord Wrick went to see Bill, who was now painting the portraits of Peregrine and Linda in the veranda.
He would probably have to stay longer, to paint a lot of new family portraits.

That probably would come perfectly, as ever, as the Lord could tell India Louise loved to spend time with the painter. Perhaps she would become an artist too…