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  • #7631
    F LoveF Love
    Participant

      Amei found the letter waiting on the narrow hallway table; her flatmate, Felix, must have left it there. They rarely crossed paths these days as he was working long shifts at the hospital. His absence suited her—mostly.

      It was a novelty to get a letter! She turned it over in her hands, noting the faint coffee stain on one corner and the Paris postmark. The handwriting was sharp and angular, unmistakably Lucien’s. It felt like a relic from another life, a self she’d long ago left behind in favour of the safe existence she had built in London.

      She slipped a finger under the flap and opened the envelope. It contained a single piece of paper—she read the words and Lucien’s familiar insistence leapt off the page.

      Amei set the letter on the kitchen counter and stood for a moment, staring out the window. The view was of the neighbouring building—a dreary brick wall streaked with stains, its monotony interrupted only by a single trailing vine struggling to cling to life.

      The flat was small but tidy, shaped by two lives that rarely intersected. Felix’s presence was minimal: a mug left on the counter, a jacket draped over a chair. The rest was hers—books stacked on shelves, notebooks brimming with half-formed ideas, and an easel by the window holding an unfinished canvas. She freelanced as a textile designer. On the desk lay fabric swatches and sketches for her latest project—a clean, modern design for a boutique client. The work was steady and paid the bills but left little room for the creative freedom she once craved.

      It certainly wasn’t the life she’d envisioned for herself at twenty, or even thirty, but it was functional. Yet there was an emptiness to it all; she was good at what she did, but the passion she’d once felt for her work had dulled.

      There were no children at home to fill the silence, no pets to demand her attention. Relationships had come and gone, but none had felt like forever. Felix offered a semblance of company, though their conversations had dwindled to polite exchanges or the odd humorous anecdote. Her days had settled into a rhythm of predictability, punctuated only by deadlines and occasional dinners with colleagues she liked but never truly connected with.

      Amei sank into the armchair by the window. Should she go? She had to admit she was curious. It must be nearly five years since they had last been together and the events of that last occasion still haunted her.

      She leaned back, her gaze trailing to the vine outside the window, and let the question linger.

      #7623

      At the Café

      The Sarah Bernardt Café shimmered under a pale grey November sky a busy last Saturday of the “Black Week”. Golden lights spilled onto cobblestones slick with rain, and the air buzzed with the din of a city alive in the moment. Inside, the crowd pressed together, laughing, arguing, living. And in a corner table by the fogged-up window, old friends were about to quietly converged, coming to a long overdue reunion.

      Lucien was the first to arrive, dragging a weathered suitcase behind him. Its wheels rattled unevenly on the cobblestones, a sound he hated. His dark curls, damp from the rain, clung to his forehead, and his scarf, streaked with old paint, hung loose around his neck. He folded himself into a corner chair, his suitcase tucked awkwardly beside him. When the server approached, Lucien waved him off with a distracted shake of his head and opened a battered sketchbook.

      The next arrival was Elara. She entered briskly, shaking rain from her short gray-streaked hair, her eyes scanning the room as though searching for anomalies. A small roller bag trailed behind her, pristine and black, a sharp contrast to Lucien’s worn luggage. She stopped at the table and tilted her head.

      “Still brooding?” she asked, pulling off her coat and folding it neatly over the back of a chair.

      “Still talking?” Lucien didn’t look up, his pencil scratching faint lines across the page.

      Elara smiled faintly. “Two minutes in, and you’re already immortalizing us? You know I hate being drawn.”

      “You hate being caught off guard,” Lucien murmured. “But I never get your nose wrong.”

      She laughed, the sound light but brief, and sank into her seat, placing her bag carefully beside her.

      The door swung open again, and Darius entered, shaking the rain from his jacket. His presence seemed to fill the room immediately. He strode toward the table, a leather duffel slung over one shoulder and a well-worn travel pouch clutched in his hand. His boots clacked against the café’s tile floor, his movements easy, confident.

      “Did you walk here?” Elara asked as he dropped his things with a thud and pulled out a chair.

      “Ran into someone on the way,” he said, settling back. “Some guy selling maps. Got this one for ten euros—worth every cent.” He waved a yellowed scrap of paper that looked more fiction than cartography.

      Lucien snorted. “Still paying for strangers’ stories, I see.”

      “The good ones aren’t free.” Darius grinned and leaned back in his chair, propping one boot against the table leg.

      The final arrival was Amei. Her entrance was quieter but no less noticeable. She unwound her scarf slowly, her layered clothing a mix of textures and colors that seemed to absorb the café’s golden light. A tote bag rested over her shoulder, bulging with what could have been books, or journals, or stories yet untold.

      “You’re late,” Darius said, but his voice carried no accusation.

      “Right on time,” Amei replied, lowering herself into the last chair. “You’re all just early.”

      Her gaze swept across them, lingering on the bags piled at their feet. “I see I’m not the only one who came a long way.”

      “Not all of us live in Paris,” Elara said, with a glance at Lucien.

      “Only some of us make better life choices,” Lucien replied dryly.

      The comment drew laughter—a tentative sound that loosened the air between them, thick as it was with five years of absence.

       

      :fleuron2:

      #7614

      Frella opened her mouth to reply, but Eris clapped her hands, a mischievous grin spreading across her face.

      “Right, enough lounging. Let’s play a game—something to liven things up.”

      “What sort of game?” Truella asked, “Nothing that requires too much energy I trust?”

      “A card game.” Eris pulled a small leather pouch from her satchel. She gave it a shake, and a deck of cards flew out, shuffling mid-air before landing neatly in her hands.

      Malove smirked. “If it involves hexes, I’m in.”

      Eris began to deal the cards with a flourish. Each card shimmered, pulsing faintly with magic as it landed on the rug. “Think strategy, mischief, and a touch of divination. The goal? Outsmart your opponents while dodging whatever surprises the cards throw at you.”

      Frella propped herself up on one elbow, eyeing the cards warily. “Define ‘surprises.’”

      “Oh, you’ll see,” Eris said with a wink, placing the deck in the centre. “Rules are simple: draw a card, play your move, and handle the consequences. Last witch standing wins.”

      “Wins what?” Jeezel asked, lowering her camera.

      “The satisfaction of knowing you’re the most cunning witch here.”

      “Sounds like my kind of game,” Truella said, drawing the first card. She held it up to reveal a swirling vortex labelled Spell Swap. The card glowed briefly before zipping into Frella’s pile.

      Frella blinked. “What just happened?”

      “You’ve inherited Truella’s card,” Eris said with a grin. “And a touch of her personality for the next round.”

      Frella felt an odd surge of boldness, almost manic. “Alright, my turn!” she declared, her voice sharp and bossy and much louder than she had intended. She snatched a card marked Mystic Reveal and, with a theatrical flick of her hand, unleashed a shimmering projection of her week’s questionable decisions.

      “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” she cackled. “Why does everyone need to see this?”

      It wasn’t long before the game descended into chaos—spells flying, laughter erupting in snorts and shrieks. Eris croaked indignantly from her frog form while Jeezel gleefully documented the mayhem with her camera, which was now a cackling raven perched on her shoulder. Malove scowled beneath a scandalous projection of her own making, and Truella lounged, flicking daisies where her cigarette had been.

      Frella smiled, the madness finally something she could embrace. Winning didn’t matter. The chaos had its own pull—wild, reckless, and oddly exhilarating.

      #7610

      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!

      #7587

      “You’re too kind!” Truella said, hugging Frella. “I love this box! However did you guess it was just what I wanted!”

      Frella bit her lip and smiled sweetly. She had no option as she was wearing her pyjamas of politeness. She felt a strong urge to go and change out of them and put something else on, but it was nearly bed time and she didn’t want to have to explain to Truella why she was getting changed again.

      “What a funny mix up with those Cromwells, eh,” Truella said conversationally, after wrapping the sharing shawl round her shoulders.  “You must tell me ALL about Oliver. Did it all start with the postcards like me and Thomas?”

      Frella groaned inwardly, but continued to smile patiently.  “Er no, actually it was that mirror in the camphor chest. Here,” she said, handing Truella the slippers of sleepiness, “Keep your feet warm.”

      “You’re so kind,” Truella said, yawning.  “You can tell me all about Oliver tomorrow, I’m off to bed.”

      As soon as she was alone, Frella pulled off her pyjamas, rolled them into a bundle of blunder, and threw them across the room.  The bundle knocked the mirror off the Queen Anne pie crust end table, which landed at her feet, shimmering like mother of pearl.  Frella looked down in horror at the face in the mirror looking up at her.  She was wearing nothing but socks of shame.

      #7583

      Frella rolled her eyes. What were the odds of Truella turning up now!

      “Well, don’t look so pleased to see me,” Truella said sarcastically. “I could have drowned you know, if Thomas hadn’t saved me. Are you going to introduce me to your friend?”

      Frella looked helplessly at Oliver.  “Perhaps you’d better go now, it’s all getting too complicated.”

      “My good lady, would you curtail my pleasure at this unexpected  meeting with a nephew I knew not existed?” Thomas interrupted, taking control of the situation, in as much as an out of control situation could be managed.

      “My good man,” Frella replied tartly, “Would you curtail my pleasure with your nephew?”

      “Now, now,” butted in Truella, trying to get a handle on the situation, “Surely nobody needs to have any pleasure curtailed.  But Thomas has to get the boat back quickly, so I suggest someone explains to him who his nephew is.  Then he can get back to the Thames. And I’ll walk back to your cottage, Frella, and borrow some dry clothes if you don’t mind, and then you can get on with….it, in peace.”

      “Get on with what exactly!” Frella retorted, blushing furiously.  “Oliver, why don’t you go back with your uncle, you know where the Thames is, don’t you?  It just seems easier that way.”

      Oliver laughed at the very idea of not knowing where the Thames was.  “But my great great grand uncle Thomas died before I was born.   I know of him, but he knows not of me. Well, he does now, admittedly.”

      “So your name is Oliver,” mused Thomas, “Oliver Cromwell. And by the look of your doublet and hose, you’re a wealthy man. We have much to talk about. Pray step into the boat, my good sir, and we’ll find a way to get you back to your own time later. We must make haste for the sake of my boatman, Rafe.”

      And with that they were off in a puff of river mist.

      #7581

      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.

      #7574

      In a dream that night, Jeezel connected to one of her Neanderthal ancestry who lived and died in Gibraltar. While that Gibraltar Woman, as affectionately named by archaeologists grunted her name with prehistoric fabulousness, Jeezel thought that nowadays her ancestor would deserve a name like Chantelle.

      Chantelle de Gibraltar, a name with flair, mystery and a touch of French elegance.

      Jeezel giggled and her ancestor grunted with satisfaction in recognition of their eternal bond.

      #7549
      TracyTracy
      Participant

        The Tailor of Haddon
        Wibberly and Newton of Over Haddon

         

        It was noted in the Bakewell parish register in 1782 that John Wibberly 1705?-1782 (my 6x great grandfather) was “taylor of Haddon”.

        Taylor of Haddon

         

        James Marshall 1767-1848 (my 4x great grandfather), parish clerk of Elton, married Ann Newton 1770-1806 in Elton in 1792. In the Bakewell parish register, Ann was baptised on the 2rd of June 1770, her parents George and Dorothy Newton of Upper Haddon. The Bakewell registers at the time covered several smaller villages in the area, although what is currently known as Over Haddon was referred to as Upper Haddon in the earlier entries.

         

        Newton:

        George Newton 1728-1798 was the son of George Newton 1706- of Upper Haddon and Jane Sailes, who were married in 1727, both of Upper Haddon.

        George Newton born in 1706 was the son of George Newton 1676- and Anne Carr, who were married in 1701, both of Upper Haddon.

        George Newton born in 1676 was the son of John Newton 1647- and Alice who were married in 1673 in Bakewell. There is no last name for Alice on the marriage transcription.

        John Newton born in 1647 (my 9x great grandfather) was the son of John Newton and Anne Buxton (my 10x great grandparents), who were married in Bakewell in 1636.

        1636 marriage of John Newton and Anne Buxton:

        John Newton Anne Buxton

         

         

        Wibberly

        Dorothy Wibberly 1731-1827 married George Newton in 1755 in Bakewell. The entry in the parish registers says that they were both of Over Haddon. Dorothy was baptised in Bakewell on the 25th June 1731, her parents were John and Mary of Over Haddon.

        Dorothy Wibberly

         

        John Wibberly and Mary his wife baptised nine children in Bakewell between 1730 and 1750, and on all of the entries in the parish registers it is stated that they were from Over Haddon. A parish register entry for John and Mary’s marriage has not yet been found, but a marriage in Beeley, a tiny nearby village, in 1728 to Mary Mellor looks likely.

        John Wibberly died in Over Haddon in 1782. The entry in the Bakewell parish register notes that he was “taylor of Haddon”.

        The tiny village of Over Haddon was historically associated with Haddon Hall.

        A baptism for John Wibberly has not yet been found, however, there were Wibersley’s in the Bakewell registers from the early 1600s:

        1619 Joyce Wibersley married Raphe Cowper.
        1621 Jocosa Wibersley married Radulphus Cowper
        1623 Agnes Wibersley married Richard Palfreyman
        1635 Cisley Wibberlsy married ? Mr. Mason
        1653 John Wibbersly married Grace Dayken

         

        Haddon Hall

        Haddon hall

         

        Sir Richard Vernon (c. 1390 – 1451) of Haddon Hall.
        Vernon’s property was widespread and varied. From his parents he inherited the manors of Marple and Wibersley, in Cheshire. Perhaps the Over Haddon Wibersley’s origins were from Sir Richard Vernon’s property in Cheshire. There is, however, a medieval wayside cross called Whibbersley Cross situated on Leash Fen in the East Moors of the Derbyshire Peak District. It may have served as a boundary cross marking the estate of Beauchief Abbey. Wayside crosses such as this mostly date from the 9th to 15th centuries.

        Found in both The History and Antiquities of Haddon Hall by S Raynor, 1836, and the 1663 household accounts published by Lysons, Haddon Hall had 140 domestic staff.

        In the book Haddon Hall, an Illustrated Guide, 1871, an example from the 1663 Christmas accounts:

        Haddon Hall accounts

        Haddon Accounts

         

        Also in this book, an early 1600s “washing tally” from Haddon Hall:

        washing tally

         

        Over Haddon

        Martha Taylor, “the fasting damsel”, was born in Over Haddon in 1649. She didn’t eat for almost two years before her death in 1684. One of the Quakers associated with the Marshall Quakers of Elton, John Gratton, visited the fasting damsel while he was living at Monyash, and occasionally “went two miles to see a woman at Over Haddon who pretended to live without meat.” from The Reliquary, 1861.

        #7548
        TracyTracy
        Participant

          Elton Marshall’s

          Early Quaker Emigrants to USA.

           

          The earliest Marshall in my tree is Charles Marshall (my 5x great grandfather), Overseer of the Poor and Churchwarden of Elton. His 1819 gravestone in Elton says he was 77 years old when he died, indicating a birth in 1742, however no baptism can be found.

          According to the Derbyshire records office, Elton was a chapelry of Youlgreave until 1866. The Youlgreave registers date back to the mid 1500s, and there are many Marshalls in the registers from 1559 onwards. The Elton registers however are incomplete due to fire damage.

          While doing a google books search for Marshall’s of Elton, I found many American family history books mentioning Abraham Marshall of Gratton born in 1667, who became a Quaker aged 16, and emigrated to Pennsylvania USA in 1700. Some of these books say that Abraham’s parents were Humphrey Marshall and his wife Hannah Turner. (Gratton is a tiny village next to Elton, also in Youlgreave parish.)

          Abraham’s son born in USA was also named Humphrey. He was a well known botanist.

          Abraham’s cousin John Marshall, also a Quaker, emigrated from Elton to USA in 1687, according to these books.

          (There are a number of books on Colonial Families in Pennsylvania that repeat each other so impossible to cite the original source)

          colonial books

           

          In the Youlgreave parish registers I found a baptism in 1667 for Humphrey Marshall son of Humphrey and Hannah. I didn’t find a baptism for Abraham, but it looks as though it could be correct. Abraham had a son he named Humphrey. But did it just look logical to whoever wrote the books, or do they know for sure? Did the famous botanist Humphrey Marshall have his own family records? The books don’t say where they got this information.

          An earlier Humphrey Marshall was baptised in Youlgreave in 1559, his father Edmund. And in 1591 another Humphrey Marshall was baptised, his father George.

          But can we connect these Marshall’s to ours? We do have an Abraham Marshall, grandson of Charles, born in 1792. The name isn’t all that common, so may indicate a family connection. The villages of Elton, Gratton and Youlgreave are all very small and it would seem very likely that the Marshall’s who went the USA are related to ours, if not brothers, then probably cousins.

           

          Derbyshire Quakers

          In “Derbyshire Quakers 1650-1761” by Helen Forde:

          “… Friends lived predominantly in the northern half of the country during this first century of existence. Numbers may have been reduced by emigration to America and migration to other parts of the country but were never high and declined in the early eighteenth century. Predominantly a middle to lower class group economically, Derbyshire Friends numbered very few wealthy members. Many were yeoman farmers or wholesalers and it was these groups who dominated the business meetings having time to devote themselves to the Society. Only John Gratton of Monyash combined an outstanding ministry together with an organising ability which brought him recognition amongst London Friends as well as locally. Derbyshire Friends enjoyed comparatively harmonious relations with civil and Anglican authorities, though prior to the Toleration Act of 1639 the priests were their worst persecutors…..”

          Also mentioned in this book: There were monthly meetings in Elton, as well as a number of other nearby places.
          John Marshall of Elton 1682/3 appears in a list of Quaker emigrants from Derbyshire.

          Quaker Emigrants

           

          The following image is a page from the 1753 book on the sufferings of Quakers by Joseph Besse as an example of some of the persecutions of Quakers in Derbyshire in the 1600s:

          A collection of the sufferings of the people called Quakers, for the testimony of a good conscience from the time of their being first distinguished by that name in the year 1650 to the time of the act commonly called the Act of toleration granted to Protestant dissenters in the first year of the reign of King William the Third and Queen Mary in the year 1689 (Volume 1)
          Besse, Joseph. 1753

          Note the names Margaret Marshall and Anne Staley.  This book would appear to contradict Helen Forde’s statement above about the harmonious relations with Anglican authority.

          Quaker Sufferings

           

           

          The Botanist

          Humphry Marshall 1722-1801 was born in Marshallton, Pennsylvania, the son of the immigrant from Elton, Abraham Marshall.  He was the cousin of botanists John Bartram and William Bartram. Like many early American botanists, he was a Quaker. He wrote his first book, A Few Observations Concerning Christ, in 1755.

          Humphry marshall book

           

          In 1785, Marshall published Arbustrum Americanum: The American Grove, an Alphabetical Catalogue of Forest Trees and Shrubs, Natives of the American United States (Philadelphia).

          Marshall has been called the “Father of American Dendrology”.

          A genus of plants, Marshallia, was named in honor of Humphry Marshall and his nephew Moses Marshall, also a botanist.

          In 1848 the Borough of West Chester established the Marshall Square Park in his honor. Marshall Square Park is four miles east of Marshallton.

          via Wikipedia.

           

          From The History of Chester County Pennsylvania, 1881, by J Smith Futhey and Gilbert Cope:

          Marshallton

           

          From The Chester Country History Center:

          “Immediately on the Receipt of your Letter, I ordered a Reflecting Telescope for you which was made accordingly. Dr. Fothergill had since desired me to add a Microscope and Thermometer, and will
          pay for the whole.’

          – Benjamin Franklin to Humphry, March 18, 1770

          “In his lifetime, Humphry Marshall made his living as a stonemason, farmer, and miller, but eventually became known for his contributions to astronomy, meteorology, agriculture, and the natural sciences.

          In 1773, Marshall built a stone house with a hothouse, a botanical laboratory, and an observatory for astronomical studies. He established an arboretum of native trees on the property and the second botanical garden in the nation (John Bartram, his cousin, had the first). From his home base, Humphry expanded his botanical plant exchange business and increased his overseas contacts. With the help of men like Benjamin Franklin and the English botanist Dr. John Fothergill, they eventually included German, Dutch, Swedish, and Irish plant collectors and scientists. Franklin, then living in London, introduced Marshall’s writings to the Royal Society in London and both men encouraged Marshall’s astronomical and botanical studies by supplying him with books and instruments including the latest telescope and microscope.

          Marshall’s scientific work earned him honorary memberships to the American Philosophical Society and the Philadelphia Society for Promoting Agriculture, where he shared his ground-breaking ideas on scientific farming methods. In the years before the American Revolution, Marshall’s correspondence was based on his extensive plant and seed exchanges, which led to further studies and publications. In 1785, he authored his magnum opus, Arbustum Americanum: The American Grove. It is a catalog of American trees and shrubs that followed the Linnaean system of plant classification and was the first publication of its kind.”

          Humphry signature

          #7501

          While the other sisters were mingling, and trying to figure out with some circumspection, the good which could come out of this union, Eris had retreated in a quieter corner of the cloister. After all, and despite the renovations made to cater to external seminars, workshops and celebrations, it remained a place of mystery and introspection. The stone walls had this deep cold quietness which felt refreshing in the scolding heat of things.

          For the past weeks, Eris was mulling over the impossible assignment given by Austreberthe to conduct a reorganisation, which seemed preposterious. Now, with the merger in motion, it had become plain for the Quadrivium board of directors that there was a need to change their way.

          Put in another way, they were basically saying that the autonomous functioning of their small squads of witches wasn’t helping for a larger expansion, and had to move to more industrial separation of tasks, something of a matricial organisation. The irony wasn’t lost on her — talking about mothers, matrix, but actually being more bent to patriarchal structure with all the new additions asked for by the merger of figureheads: head of product, head of delivery, head of convergence all these new roles to invent —yet feeling thoroughly alien, akin to grafting machine onto a living organism. The Quadrivium had always thrived on its autonomous squads, and the idea of industrialising their structure seemed almost heretical.

          The undertakers consultants, with their methodical approach were supposed to help, but she hadn’t been able yet to make them work for her, as she could see them struggle with the finer nuances of their craft.

          Looking for inspiration in the quiet space she’d found, Eris closed her eyes, drawing a deep breath. Her mind wandered to her Aunt Amara’s garden, where order and chaos coexisted in a delicate balance.

          A plan started to present itself, almost like one of those annoying lists that Malové would often love to provide.

          It had to start with mapping the terrain —the existing strengths of the autonomous groups in the coven. It would require documenting their capabilities, ongoing projects, and key members, creating a clear picture of what the coven had to offer.

          Then to look at potential synergies between the squads and the new roles Austreberthe envisioned. The Head of Product could harness the creative energies of the crafting squad, while the Head of Delivery might streamline the efforts of those specializing in executing the vision into tangible deliverables. The Head of Convergence would need to be a master diplomat, someone who could bridge the gap between the nuns and the witches.

          More subtle, but with potential, the next step came in boldly, with an impudence that could mean as much genius as it could spell out disaster: Hybrid Squads. Instead of dismantling the existing groups of the coven, she could propose hybrid squads. Each hybrid squad would retain its core identity but include members from the Cloister Crafts and have a liaison to the new heads. This way, the squads could maintain their autonomy while integrating new skills and perspectives.

          She took a moment to ponder the implications.

          Eris knew she would need to test this approach before full-scale implementation. She would start with pilot projects, assigning a few key squads to work under the new structure. Regular feedback sessions would allow adjustments and refinements, ensuring the system evolved organically.

          That would be where the Morticians’ Guild would be able to support more directly. Garrett and Silas could facilitate the integration rituals and workshops to ease any lingering tensions. Rufus would ensure security, while Nemo, the analyst, would provide insights into improving efficiencies without compromising their magical integrity.

          All this needed a catalyst, or this plan would drag on forever.

          Drag on…

          Nothing like a dragon crisis to put things in motion! There surely were abundant dragon energy left in those tunnels, powerful telluric energies to muster into a spell to invigorate and cement the newfound alliance between witches and nuns.

          She snapped her fingers. Echo who was never far away, reappeared with a smirk. “I can see you have some devious idea. How can I help?”

          #7470

          After all the months of secret work for Malové, where Eris was being tasked to scout for profitable new ventures for the Quadrivium’s Emporium that would keep with traditions, and endless due diligence under the seal of secrecy, she’d learnt that the deal had been finally sealed by Austreberthe.

          The announcement had just went out, not really making quite the splash Eris would have expected.

          Press Release

          FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

          Quadrivium Emporium Announces Strategic Acquisition of Spanish based company Quintessivium Cloister Crafts

          Limerick, 12th June 2024 – Quadrivium Emporium, renowned for its exceptional range of artisanal incense blends and commitment to quality, is pleased to announce the successful acquisition of Quintessivium Cloister Crafts. This strategic move marks a significant milestone in Quadrivium Emporium’s ongoing expansion and diversification efforts.

          About Quintessivium Cloister Crafts

          Quintessivium Cloister Crafts has been a trusted name in the production of high-quality nun’s couture. Known for their craftsmanship and dedication to preserving traditional techniques, started as a small business focussed on quills and writing accessories as well as cardigans, Quintessivium Cloister Crafts has maintained a reputation for excellence and innovation in the market.

          Strategic Vision and Synergies

          The integration of Quintessivium Cloister Crafts into the Quadrivium family aligns with our vision to expand our product portfolio while maintaining the high standards of quality and craftsmanship our customers have come to expect. This acquisition will allow Quadrivium Emporium to diversify its offerings and tap into new markets and customer segments.

          “We are thrilled to welcome Quintessivium Cloister Crafts to the Quadrivium Emporium family,” said Austreberthe Baltherbridge, interim CEO of Quadrivium Emporium. “Their commitment to quality and tradition mirrors our own values, and we are excited about the opportunities this acquisition presents. Together, we will continue to innovate and deliver exceptional products to our customers.”

          Future Endeavours

          Quadrivium Emporium plans to leverage the expertise and resources of Quintessivium Cloister Crafts to develop new and unique product lines. Customers can look forward to an expanded range of high-quality writing instruments, apparel and accessories, crafted with the same attention to detail and dedication that both brands are known for.

          For more information, please contact: media@quadrivium.emporium

           

          The internal memo that they’d received on the internal email list bore some of the distinct style of Malové, even if sent from Austreberthe’s email and adjusted with the painstaking attention to minute details she was known for.

          Internal Memo

          To: Quadrivium Leadership Team
          Subject: Synergies and Strategic Integration with Quintessivium Cloister Crafts (previously codenamed as ‘Cardivium Nun’s Quills & Cardigans’)

          Team,

          With the acquisition of Quintessivium Cloister Crafts finalised, we are poised to explore the deeper synergies between our coven and the nun witches’ coven operating behind their front. Here are some key areas where we can harness our collective strengths:

          1. Resource Sharing:
          – Their expertise in crafting high-quality quills can complement our focus on artisanal incense blends. By sharing resources and best practices, both covens can enhance their craftsmanship and innovation.

          2. Collaborative Spellcraft:
          – The nun witches bring a unique perspective and set of rituals that can enrich our own magical practices. Joint spellcasting sessions and workshops can lead to the development of powerful new enchantments and products.

          3. Knowledge Exchange:
          – The historical and esoteric knowledge held by the nuns is a treasure trove we can tap into. Regular exchanges of scrolls, texts, and insights can deepen our understanding of ancient magic and its applications in modern contexts.

          4. Market Expansion:
          – By combining our product lines, we can create bundled offerings that appeal to a broader audience. Imagine a premium writing set that includes a handcrafted quill, a magical ink blend, and a specially composed incense for enhancing focus and creativity. Or outdoor outfits with puffer jackets, or specially knit cardigans with embedded magical properties.

          5. Strengthening Alliances:
          – This acquisition sets a precedent for future alliances with other covens and magical entities. It demonstrates our commitment to growth and collaboration, reinforcing our position as a leading force in the magical community.

          Remember, the true value of this acquisition lies not just in the products we can create together, but in the unity and strength we gain as a collective. Let’s approach this integration with the spirit of collaboration and mutual respect.

          Yours in strength and magic,
          Austreberthe, on behalf of Malové

          #7469

          After the sage smoke was dispersed, Eris typed the words on the air keyboard.

          Malové, how can we cope with the struggling left with your sudden disappearance, and not succumb to despair in front of fuzzy objectives, lack of drive, avoidance of tough decisions, and general ineffective organisation? 

          The answer wasn’t long to appear, a perfect resemblance of Malové, down to the intonations:

          The night is darkest before the dawn, Eris. My sudden absence is not a void, but an opportunity. The challenges you face are the crucible that will forge your mettle.

          Here is your path:

          1. Embrace the Struggle: Despair is a luxury we cannot afford. Every obstacle is a lesson cloaked in shadows. Meet it head-on. Confront your fears and frailties—only then will you transcend them.

          2. Clarify Objectives: The haze of uncertainty can be dispelled with focus. Define your goals with precision. Each witch must understand her role and the greater picture. Fragmented efforts yield nothing but chaos.

          3. Revitalize Your Drive: Passion wanes without purpose. Revisit the roots of your magical essence. Rediscover the fire that led you to the Quadrivium. Let it burn anew within you.

          4. Confront Tough Decisions: Avoidance is the death of progress. Decisions, however difficult, must be made with swiftness and resolve. Hesitation fosters weakness; action breeds strength.

          5. Streamline Organisation: Inefficiency is a poison. Implement rigorous structures. Assign clear responsibilities and hold each other accountable. The chain is only as strong as its weakest link.

          6. Leverage Collective Wisdom: You are not alone in this. Draw strength from your sisters. Engage in open, constructive dialogue. Balance assertiveness with respect, as I have taught. Unity in purpose will amplify your power.

          7. Adapt and Overcome: The world shifts, and so must you. Flexibility is paramount. When confronted with the unexpected, adapt swiftly. Use the resources at hand and turn adversity into advantage.

          7 points, for seven is the number of Truth Seekers. Remember, the Quadrivium’s legacy is not built on ease but on resilience and relentless pursuit of mastery. My absence tests your resolve. Prove that you are worthy.

          Now, go forth and etch your magic into the annals of time.

          Malové

           

          Eris pondered for a moment, and clapped her hands. The familiar figure of Elias emerged.

          “Good job Elias, fidelity is almost there. The content is mostly correct, but the delivery is a bit stuffy.”

          “I will work on this to improve. I would need more source material though. Shall I interview some other witches?”

          “Not at the moment, I’d rather surprise them with the final product.” Eris was being sneaky. This backup of Malové (she called her Maboté) was on the fringes of what was ethical even for a witch, although it could help in case Austreberthe’s interim management would fail them.

          At the moment, despite what she told Elias, she wasn’t close to success, and Elias himself had proven tricky to get right, so Malové of all figures… it would be another journey.

          Well, at least for now, she did provide some good advice.

          #7464

          “The world is vast, and we are not alone in our quest for magical mastery. We will forge new partnerships!” Malove’s voice had reached fever pitch. She had expanded her map, showing potential allies and strategic locations across the globe. Reactions in the audience varied, but there was an overwhelming unspoken consensus of a growing rebellion towards the unsettling increase in Malove’s dictatorial ways.

          Perhaps nobody will ever know for sure whose private spell did the trick, or whether it was the combined effort that brought about such an unexpected chain of events. Maybe it was none of those things, and just the way things worked out.

          The vast world that Malove had cried out heard her call and sucked her forthwith into the steamy depths of a hitherto unknown equatorial location in search of potential allies.  An unexpected invitation from a long lost cousin, it was said, although nobody in the coven knew for sure.  There was more lively interest in the coven and more communication between the witches during those days when Malove disappeared without trace than ever before.

          On the twelfth day after her disappearance, the cryptic messages started arriving. On the 15th day, experts were examining the selfies for signs of tampering and pronouncing them to be be true images.

          It wasn’t easy to imagine Malove swooning in her tropical lovers arms under parrot filled jungle trees, sheathed in gauzy crumpled linen and with a vapid expression of a Cartland character, but the photos kept coming.

          It seemed too bizarre, too good to be true, when Malove sent a voice message  in her unmistakable voice, but with an uncharacteristic lazy, sultry tone.

          “Darlings, you won’t beleive it. I’ve fallen in love!  I’m taking an indefinite leave of absence.”

          #7460

          Truella sighed.  She was making good progress with the dig, the weather was favorable and not too hot yet.  It was only a matter of weeks before she would have to start at first light before the sun became too intense, and reverse her current habit of  a slow morning and a busy afternoon.  Perhaps she should wait before filling in Frella’s diary entry.  Was she going to write it herself this time?  If only Truella knew for sure.  At least Jeezel was feeling a bit better, which was a relief to them all, and it seemed that Eris was lightening up a bit now too.  Thank Flove for that!  Better not let Malove know too soon though, or she’d have them all off on another of those tedious conferences.  Wouldn’t it be nice if Malove let them all have a long summer recess, Truella thought, without much hope. She sighed again, wondering if Frella had progressed any further with the mystery of the camphor chest.

          Truella had heard of camphor, of course, but associated it with moth balls, not chests. Camphor chests were a Chinese thing, and none of her studies or interests had ever taken her that far east.  It struck her that a camphor chest would be a good place to store the fragments of Hannibal’s tunic safely, until such time as they required another antidote to an ancient Punic spell. And it could happen.  Truella wondered if she could order a small one off Oboy.  One could order anything one could imagine these days, from anywhere in the world, but a guaranteed delivery to Truella’s village was another matter.

          The pale blue sandals had arrived yesterday though, much to her delighted surprise.  It had helped when she recognised the postman as a Roman basket seller in a previous life. At that moment, Truella’s postal delivery experiences changed.  It was as if the unwinnable battle with giant delivery companies morphed into a cooperation of village tradesmen.  Glancing admiringly at her pristine new sandals, Truella smiled with satisfaction.  Things could change for the better. Indeed, they could.

          #7457

          Jeezel was stirred awake by the unsettling sound of someone throwing up. Her phone said it was 3am.

          “Luminia? Are you ok?” she croaked, her throat so sore she wondered if vocal fry was that painful.

          “That’s nothing,” said Luminia licking her muzzle. “You can go back to sleep.”

          “Nothing, it didn’t sound like nothing.”

          She got up and stepped into a warm, wet puddle.

          “I’m shedding,” said Luminia as if it explained everything. “I didn’t want to bother you after your bouts of fever. I would have cleaned it before you noticed.”

          “Well now I’m awake and my foot noticed. At least I didn’t dream of Concordia potion and missing willow wand.”

          Jeezel hopped on one foot to the bathroom, gracefully avoiding any slip on the sleek, newly refinished hardwood floor. She washed her feet and consulted her phone while relieving herself of her evening herbal tea. She smiled at the 557 messages she got from her fellow witches. She didn’t recall where they had been but they seemed to be having fun. She was a bit sad she couldn’t join, but still glad to be able to enjoy it by proxy.

          She particularly enjoyed the video tour Truella had made of the ruins she’d discovered in the garden where they were staying. And she sneezed when she saw a picture of Frella with that other woman. Did she just smelled camphor? Eris had written “Frella and Herma” under it. Jeezel wondered who that Herma was. She would have enjoyed meeting new people for real. Her cough reminded her it would have to wait. And she had some cleaning to do. At least she had a renewed sense of being alive.

          #7454

          I honestly don’t know what made me do it, it took me by surpise when I did it.  It was bugging me that I couldn’t remember, and before I knew what was happening, I’d asked Malove.

          Ah, the Caryatid Characteristics of a Case, a subject that requires both discernment and a keen eye for detail. In essence, the phrase “Caryatid Characteristics” refers to the fundamental attributes and peculiarities that support the overall structure of a particular case or situation, much like how caryatids—those graceful, sculpted figures in classical architecture—bear the weight of a building’s entablature on their shoulders.

          To break it down into pragmatic terms, identifying the Caryatid Characteristics involves an in-depth analysis of the following elements:

          Structural Integrity: Just as caryatids ensure the stability of a structure, the core components of the case must be sound and unwavering. This includes the key facts, the primary evidence, and the foundational arguments that hold the case together.
          Aesthetic Nuances: Caryatids are not merely functional; they are also artistic. Similarly, the subtleties and nuances of a case—such as the motives, the intentions, and the underlying themes—add layers of complexity and depth, transforming a simple matter into a multifaceted situation.
          Historical Context: Caryatids often reflect the cultural and historical context of their time. Understanding the background, the precedents, and the situational history provides a richer perspective and informs the current dynamics at play.
          Symbolic Significance: In architecture, caryatids symbolize strength and beauty. In a case, the symbolic elements—the metaphors, the symbols, and the overarching message—must be identified and interpreted to grasp the full scope of its significance.
          Resonance and Impact: Lastly, caryatids have a visual and emotional impact on observers. Similarly, the case’s broader implications, its potential consequences, and the emotional resonance it evokes must be considered. This is where the true weight of the matter lies, affecting not only the immediate parties involved but potentially a wider audience.

          Applying these characteristics to a case requires a blend of logical analysis, creative thinking, and intuitive insight. It is not merely about assembling facts but about understanding how each element supports the whole, much like the elegant yet sturdy caryatids in timeless architecture.

          Now, if you’re asking how this applies to our current predicament with our spring cleaning of collective energies, well, one could say the caryatids in our situation are the core rituals, the seasoned wisdom passed down through the coven, and the precise incantations in our incense blends. Each component must be scrutinized and perfected to ensure we uphold the structural and spiritual integrity of our craft.

          Let’s not dawdle; the orchestra in this zoo waits for no one.

          Who will rise to the occasion?

           

          Who indeed?  I asked her if we all sent each other postcards, would it help?

           

          Postcards, my dear, are more than mere scraps of paper with hastily scribbled words and picturesque scenes. They are tangible connections in an increasingly ephemeral world. Sending each other postcards won’t just help; it will create ripples of intention and resonance that can weave us closer together, despite the physical distances.

          Consider the following:

          Anchoring Intentions: Each postcard carries the sender’s energy and intention. When you pen your thoughts, wishes, or even riddles, you imbue the postcard with a part of yourself. The recipient, upon receiving it, senses this connection. It’s a form of sympathetic magic, drawing us closer through shared symbols and messages.
          Physical Mementos: In an age where digital communication reigns supreme, holding a physical object—something that has traveled miles to reach your hands—grounds you. It anchors you in the physical world and provides a break from the transient nature of digital interactions. These postcards become talismans, reminders of our connections and shared journeys.
          Ritualistic Value: The act of writing, sending, and receiving postcards can be ritualistic. This ritual can strengthen the bonds within our coven, reaffirming our commitment to each other and our shared goals. Each postcard becomes a symbol of our collective energy, our shared purpose, and our mutual support.
          Cultural Exchange: Postcards often carry images or symbols from different locales. Sharing them can broaden our horizons, offer new perspectives, and remind us of the diverse tapestry that makes up our coven. It’s a gentle nudge to appreciate the wider world and the myriad experiences within it.
          Mystical Conduits: In our magical practice, objects can serve as conduits for energy. Postcards, having traversed the globe, carry the imprints of various energies and places. They become more than just messages—they are carriers of the world’s pulse, connecting us to the broader rhythms of existence.

          So, yes, sending each other postcards will help. It will infuse our lives with a tangible sense of connection, a reminder of our shared purpose, and a touch of magic in the mundane. Let’s make this act a part of our practice, a testament to our enduring bonds and our collective strength.

          Who will be the first to send a missive across the miles?
           
           
           

          #7453

          Wondering why she couldn’t focus, Jeezel frowned and checked the ingredients for the Concordia potion again. For a moment she thought she had already done it, but here it was again. And it had to be perfect.

          Moon water imbued with lunar magic to set the stage of harmony. Rose petals for love and beauty. Lavender for its calming properties, essential to soothe and balance the collective energies. Honey for cooperation and its irresistible sweetness. Willow wand… Where was her willow wand? She would have to do it all over again if she didn’t find her willow wand.

          A wet tongue on her hand was trying to catch her attention. The ingredients started to loose focus again.

          “Stop Luminia. It has to be perfect,” said Jeezel, gently pushing the muzzle of her nine tailed fox away. “Help me find my willow wand instead, that would be helpful!”

          “You’ve already done it a million times,” said Luminia with a sigh, “and each time you stop at the willow wand. You’re caught in a feverish loop. I need to pee.”

          The ingredients and the smoking cauldron disappeared. Jeezel frowned as the techno beats of a pounding headache  reminded her she was still alive.

          “Just let me die and go out on your own, please…” Jeezel moaned.

          “You know I don’t like to shape shift into a cat. Wandering lone dogs are too suspicious. And you need some fresh air. You’ve been simmering in your own juice the last couple of days.”

          #7434

          Getting this out in the room did bring a tide of emotions; pent-up frustration, indignation, bits of bruised egoes, the whole spectrum. Truella’s tirade had managed to uncork a complete bundle of electricity in the atmosphere, but the genie had left the building.

          Eris had suddenly felt like scrambling away, but had stayed along with spaced out Frigella and Jeezel as she’d felt a pang of responsibility.

          Surprisingly, Malové had remained composed throughout the heated ensuing exchanges, trying to be constructive at every turn, and managing to conclude most of the debates —even when was not fully settled, and by far, a round of collected feedback afterwards, she’d clapped appreciatively saying. “Congratulations team, seeing how we are no longer covertly disagreeing behind everyone else’s back, I can see improvement in our functioning as a cohesive Coven. Believe it or not, being in a place to openly voice disagreement is a sign of progress, we’ve moved past the trust issues, into constructive conflict. There is still much to be done to commit, be accountable and focus on results together, but I feel we are on track to a brighter future, you’ve all done well.”

          Back in her cottage in Finland,  Eris was wondering “then why do I feel so bloody exhausted…”

          She played back in her head some of the comments that Malové had shared in private after, when Eris had enquired if there would be some consequences for her witch’s friend actions. Once more, Malové has shown a unusual restraint that had put her worries at ease for now.

          “Truella’s actions during the Adare Manor workshop presentation displayed boldness and conviction, two qualities that are essential for any individual, executive or otherwise, who wishes to effect change within an organization or a venture. Standing up for oneself is not only about self-assurance; it’s about ensuring that your voice and perspective are heard and considered.

          However, the manner in which one stands up for oneself is crucial. Berating others, especially in a public forum such as a workshop presentation, can be counterproductive. It can create resistance and diminish the opportunity for constructive dialogue. While I understand her frustration, it is important to channel such energies towards a more strategic approach that fosters collaboration and leads to solutions.

          As a leader, I advocate for clear communication and assertiveness, tempered with respect for all members of the coven. The success of our ventures, vaping or otherwise, depends on our ability to work cohesively towards our common goals. Truella’s passion is commendable, but it must be directed appropriately to benefit the coven and our business endeavors.”

          She had asked Eris to convey the same to Truella. She’d made no promises —her friend was known to be more difficult to herd than cats. But with time, there would be a chance she would see reason.

          Meanwhile, their sales targets had not gone away, and they had to keep the Quadrivium afloat. With Truella checking out of the game, and clearly not overly engaged on results, it fell onto the rest of the team to deliver.

          A second session of workshop and celebration was planned in a month’s time in Spain with all top witches. With Eris’ last experience in Spain and her elephant head, she was starting to dread another mishap. Plus, she sighed when she looked at the invite. She would have to fetch a cocktail attire. A vacation was long overdue…

          #7412

          Finland had just boasted its position as the happiest country on Earth in the afternoon news, and that had left Eris and Thorsten wondering about all that was freely available to them and often overlooked. Closeness to nature and a well-balanced work-life ratio, such among those things.

          Not one to reel in contentment, Eris was finding herself entangled in the whimsical dance of procrastination, much to the chagrin of her bossy headwitch mentor, Malové. Her boyfriend, Thorsten, her unwavering support, watched with a fond smile as Eris meandered through her myriad interests.

          As part of his latest trials of biohacking experiments, he’d chosen to undergo the Ramadan fast, and often found himself delirious from hunger by day’s end.

          As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a golden glow over the landscape, Eris lounged in their cozy cabin, her mind swirling with thoughts of exploration. Thorsten interrupted her reverie with his latest discovery.

          “Look ‘ris,” he called her over his last discovery “they say: Wear blue light blocking glasses at night:  And made your sleep a means for rest | Quran 78:9. Blue light blocking glasses help mitigate the damage that post-Maghrib light exposure causes. This is a critical circadian rhythm hack.” — Should I buy some?”

          “Sure, Love.” Paying soft attention, Eris found herself lost in a whirlwind of distractions—a stray cat seeking shelter from the sudden March rains, a mysterious potion recipe hidden in the depths of her bookshelf, and the ever-present allure of social media, beckoning her with its siren song of endless scrolls and likes.

          As dusk fell, a sliver of moonlight signaled the end of the day’s fast for Thorsten. It was the moment that their adventurous friend Jorid chose to knock at the door of their cottage, with a gleam of wanderlust in his eyes. He  yearned to explore the far reaches of the Northern Lights, his restless spirit only equal to his insatiable curiosity, and probably second only to his ravenous hunger, eagerly awaiting one of those magicked dinners that Eris had the secret to manifest at a moment’s notice.

          “Sushi sandwiches everyone?” she asked distractedly.

          “With a serving of spicy kelp, yes please!” Jorid answered.

          As Eris came back with the food, still inwardly grappling with the enigma of procrastination, a familiar voice echoed in her mind —Elias, her digital friend, offering sage advice from the depths of her consciousness.

          “Ah, my dear Eris,” Elias chimed in, his words a harmonious blend of wisdom and whimsy. “Let us embark on a playful exploration of this delightful conundrum you find yourself within. Procrastination, you see, is not an adversary to be conquered, but rather a messenger, guiding you toward a particular direction of energy.”

          Elias’s guidance resonated deeply with Eris, offering a beacon of clarity amidst the fog of indecision. “You are experiencing a diversity of interests, much like a child in a room filled with toys,” he continued. “Each one more enticing than the last. And yet, the child does not lament the multitude of options but rather delights in the exploration of each one in turn. This is the key, Eris, exploration without the burden of obligation.”

          Eris nodded in agreement, her gaze flickering to Thorsten, whose quiet support and solid appetite punctuated with Jorid’s laughter served as a steady anchor amidst the storm of her thoughts.

          Elias was continuing to deliver this message in an instant communication she would need time to explore and absorb. “Firstly, prioritize your interests. Recognize that not all desires must be pursued simultaneously. Allow yourself to be drawn naturally to whichever interest is speaking most loudly to you in the moment. Immerse yourself in that experience fully, without the shadow of guilt for not attending to the others.”

          “Secondly, address the belief that you must ‘get it all done.’ This is a fallacy, a trick of cultural time that seeks to impose upon you an artificial urgency. Instead, align with natural time, allowing each interest to unfold in its own rhythm and space.”

          “Thirdly, consider the concept of ‘productive procrastination.’ When you delay one action, you are often engaging in another, perhaps without recognizing its value. Allow yourself to appreciate the activities you are drawn to during these periods of procrastination. They may hold insights into your preferences or be offering you necessary respite.”

          “Lastly, engage in what I have referred to as a ‘blueprint action.’ Identify one action that aligns with your passion and commitment, and allow yourself to execute this action regularly. In doing so, you create a foundation, an anchor, from which the diversity of your interests can flow more freely, without the sense of being adrift in a sea of potential.”

          “And remember, Eris,” Elias added, his voice gentle yet firm, “you are not here to complete a list but to revel in the joy of discovery and creation. Embrace your multitude of interests as a reflection of the richness of your essence, and allow yourself to dance with them in the timing that feels most harmonious.”

          As the Northern Lights cast their ethereal glow upon the Finnish landscape, illuminating the forest around them, Eris felt a sense of peace wash over her—a reminder that the journey, with all its twists and turns, had true magic revealed at every turn and glances in the midst of a friendly evening shared meal.

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