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  • #7875

    Mars Outpost — Fueling of Dreams (Prune)

    I lean against the creaking bulkhead of this rust-stained fueling station, watching Mars breathe. Dust twirls across the ochre plains like it’s got somewhere important to be. The whole place rattles every time the wind picks up—like the metal shell itself is complaining. I find it oddly comforting. Reminds me of the Flying Fish Inn back home, where the fireplace wheezed like a drunk aunt and occasionally spit out sparks for drama.

    Funny how that place, with all its chaos and secret stash hidey-holes, taught me more about surviving space than any training program ever could.

    “Look at me now, Mater,” I catch myself thinking, tapping the edge of the viewport with a gloved knuckle. “Still scribbling starships in my head. Only now I’m living inside one.”

    Behind me, the ancient transceiver gives its telltale blip… blip. I don’t need to check—I recognize the signal. Helix 25, closing in. The one ship people still whisper about like it’s a myth with plumbing. Part of me grins. Half nostalgia, half challenge.

    Back in ’27, I shipped off to that mad boarding school with the oddball astronaut program. Professors called me a prodigy. I called it stubborn curiosity and a childhood steeped in ghost stories, half-baked prophecies, and improperly labeled pickle jars. The real trick wasn’t the calculus—it was surviving the Curara clan’s brand of creative chaos.

    After graduation, I bought into a settlers’ programme. Big mistake. Turns out it was more con than colonization, sold with just enough truth to sting. Some people cracked. I just adjusted course. Spent some time bouncing between jobs, drifted home a couple times for stew and sideways advice, and kept my head sharp. Lesson logged: deceit’s just another puzzle with missing pieces.

    A hiss behind the wall cuts into my thoughts—pipes complaining again. I spin, scan the console. Pressure’s holding. “Fine,” which out here means “still not exploding.” Good enough.

    I remember the lottery ticket that got me here— 2049, commercial flights to Mars at last soared skyward— and Effin Muck’s big lottery. At last a seat to Mars, on section D. Just sheer luck that felt like a miracle at the time. But while I was floating spaceward, Earth went sideways: asteroid mining gone wrong, panic, nuclear strikes. I watched pieces of home disappear through a porthole while the Mars colonies went silent, one by one. All those big plans reduced to empty shells and flickering lights.

    I was supposed to be evacuated, too. Instead, my lowly post at this fueling station—this rust bucket perched on a dusty plateau—kept me in place. Cosmic joke? Probably. But here I am. Still alive. Still tinkering with things that shouldn’t work. Still me.

    I reprogrammed the oxygen scrubbers myself. Hacked them with a dusty old patch from Aunt Idle’s “Dream Time” stash. When the power systems started failing and had to cut all the AI support to save on power, I taught myself enough broken assembly code to trick ancient processors into behaving. Improvisation is my mother tongue.

    “Mars is quieter than the Inn,” I say aloud, half to myself. “Only upside, really.”

    Another ping from the transceiver—it’s getting closer. The Helix 25, humanity’s last-ditch bottle-in-space. They say it’s carrying what’s left of us. Part myth, part mobile city. If I didn’t have the logs, I’d half believe it was a fever dream.

    But no dream prepares you for this kind of quiet.

    I think about the Inn again. How everyone swore it had secret tunnels, cursed tiles, hallucinations in the pantry. Honestly, it probably did. But it also had love—scrambled, sarcastic love—and enough stories to keep you wondering if any of them were real. That’s where I learned to spot a lie, tell a better one, and stay grounded when the walls started talking.

    I smack the comm panel until it stops crackling. That’s the secret to maintenance on Mars: decisive violence.

    “All right, Helix,” I mutter. “Let’s see what you’ve got. I’ve got thruster fuel, half-functional docking protocols, and a mean kettle of tea if you’re lucky.”

    I catch my reflection in the viewport glass—older, sure. Forty-two now. Taller. Calmer in the eyes. But the glint’s still there, the one that says I’ve seen worse, and I’m still standing. That kid at the Inn would’ve cheered.

    Earth’s collapse wasn’t some natural catastrophe—it was textbook human arrogance. Effin Muck’s greedy asteroid mining scheme. World leaders playing hot potato with nuclear codes. It burned. Probably still does… But I can’t afford to stew in it. We’re not here to mourn; we’re here to rebuild. If someone’s going to help carry that torch, it might as well be someone who’s already walked through fire.

    I fiddle with the dials on the fuel board. It hums like a tired dragon, but it’s awake. That’s all I need.

    “Might be time to pass some of that brilliance along,” I mutter, mostly to the station walls. Somewhere, I bet my siblings are making fun of me. Probably watching soap dramas and eating improperly reheated stew. Bless them. They were my first reality check, and I still measure the world by how weird it is compared to them. Loved them for how hard they made me feel normal after all.

    The wind howls across the shutters. I stand up straight, brush the dust off my sleeves. Helix 25 is almost here.

    “Showtime,” I say, and grin. Not the nice kind. The kind that says I’ve got one wrench, three working systems, and no intention of rolling over.

    The Flying Fish Inn shaped me with every loud, strange, inexplicable day. It gave me humor. It gave me bite. It gave me an unshakable sense of self when everything else fell apart.

    So here I stand—keeper of the last Martian fueling post, scrappy guardian of whatever future shows up next.

    I glance once more at the transceiver, then hit the big green button to unlock the landing bay.

    “Welcome to Mars,” I say, deadpan. Then add, mostly to myself, “Let’s see if they’re ready for me.”

    #7707

    Matteo — Easter Break 2023

    The air in the streets carried the sweet intoxicating smell of orange blossoms, as Matteo stood at the edge of a narrow cobbled street in Xàtiva, the small town just a train ride from Valencia that Juliette had insisted on visiting. The weekend had been a blur of color and history—street markets in Italy, Venetian canals last month, and now this little-known hometown of the Borgias, nestled under the shadow of an ancient castle.

    Post-pandemic tourism was reshaping the rhythm of Europe. The crowds in the big capitals felt different now—quieter in some places, overwhelming in others. Xàtiva, however, seemed untouched, its charm untouched. Matteo liked it. It felt authentic, a place with layers to uncover.

    Juliette, as always, had planned everything. She had a knack for unearthing destinations that felt simultaneously curated and spontaneous. They had started with the obvious—Berlin, Amsterdam, Florence—but now her choices were becoming more eccentric.

    “Where do you even find these places?” Matteo had asked on the flight to Valencia, his curiosity genuine.

    She grinned, pulling out her phone and scrolling through saved videos. “Here,” she said, passing it to him. “This channel had great ideas before it went dark. He had listed all those places with 1-euro houses deals in many fantastic places in Europe. Once we’re ready to settle” she smiled at him.

    The video that played featured sweeping shots of abandoned stone houses and misty mountain roads, narrated by a deep, calm voice. “There’s magic in forgotten places,” the narrator said. “A story waiting for the right hands to revive it.”

    Matteo leaned closer, intrigued. The channel was called Wayfare, and the host, though unnamed in the video, had a quiet magnetism that made him linger. The content wasn’t polished—some shots were shaky, the editing rough—but there was an earnestness to it that immediately captured his attention.

    “This guy’s great,” Matteo said. “What happened to him?”

    “Darius, I think his name was,” Juliette replied. “I loved his videos. He didn’t have a huge audience, but it felt like he was speaking to you, you know?” She shrugged. “He shut it down a while back. Rumors about some drama with patrons or something.”

    Matteo handed the phone back, his interest waning. “Too bad,” he said. “I like his style.”

    The train ride to Xàtiva had been smooth, the rolling hills and sun-drenched orchards sliding slowly outside the window. The time seemed to move at a slower pace here. Matteo’d been working with an international moving company in Paris, mostly focused to expats in and out of France. Tips were good and it usually meant having a tiring week, but what the job lacked in interest, it compensated with with extra recuperation days.

    As they climbed toward the castle overlooking the town, Juliette rattled off details she’d picked up online.

    “The Borgias are fascinating,” she said, gesturing toward the town below. “They came from here, you know. Rose to power around the 13th century. Claimed they were descended from Visigoth kings, but most people think that’s all invention.”

    “Clever, though,” Matteo said. “Makes you almost wish you had a magic box to smartly rewrite your ancestry, that people would believe it if you play it right.”

    Juliette smiled. “Yeah! They were masters cheaters and gaslighters.”

    “Reinventing where they came from, like us, always reinventing where we go…”

    Juliette chuckled but didn’t reply.

    Matteo’s mind wandered, threading Juliette’s history lesson with stories his grandmother used to tell—tales of the Borgias’ rise through cunning and charm, and how they were descended from the infamous family through Lucrecia, the Pope’s illegitimate daughter. It was strange how family lore could echo through places so distant from where he’d grown up.

    As they reached the castle’s summit, Matteo paused to take it all in. The valley stretched below them, a patchwork of red-tiled rooftops and olive groves shimmering in the afternoon light. Somewhere in this region, Juliette said, Darius had explored foreclosed homes, hoping to revive them with new communities. Matteo couldn’t help but think how odd it was, these faint connections between lives—threads weaving places and people together, even when the patterns weren’t clear.

    :fleuron2:

    Later, over a shared plate of paella, Juliette nudged him with her fork. “What are you thinking about?”

    “Nothing much,” Matteo said, swirling his glass of wine. “Just… how people tell stories. The Borgias, this Darius guy, even us—everyone’s looking for a way to leave a mark, even if it’s just on a weekend trip.”

    Juliette smiled, her eyes glinting with mischief. “Well, you better leave your mark tomorrow. I want a picture of you standing on that castle wall.”

    Matteo laughed, raising his glass. “Deal. But only if you promise not to fall off first.”

    As the sun dipped below the horizon, the streets of Xàtiva began to glow with the warmth of lamplight. Matteo leaned back in his chair, the wine softening the edges of the day. For a moment, he thought of Darius again—of foreclosed homes and forgotten stories. He didn’t dwell on it, though. The present was enough.

    #7656

    Matteo — December 1st 2023: the Advent Visit

    (near Avignon, France)

    The hallway smelled of nondescript antiseptic and artificial lavender, a lingering scent jarring his senses with an irreconciliable blend of sterility and forced comfort. Matteo shifted the small box of Christmas decorations under his arm, his boots squeaking slightly against the linoleum floor. Outside, the low winter sun cast long, pale shadows through the care facility’s narrow windows.

    When he reached Room 208, Matteo paused, hand resting on the doorframe. From inside, he could hear the soft murmur of a holiday tune—something old-fashioned and meant to be cheerful, likely playing from the small radio he’d gifted her last year. Taking a breath, he stepped inside.

    His mother, Drusilla sat by the window in her padded chair, a thick knit shawl draped over her frail shoulders. She was staring intently at her hands, her fingers trembling slightly as they folded and unfolded the edge of the shawl. The golden light streaming through the window framed her face, softening the lines of age and wear.

    “Hi, Ma,” Matteo said softly, setting the box down on the small table beside her.

    Her head snapped up at the sound of his voice, her eyes narrowing as she fixed him with a sharp, almost panicked look. “Léon?” she said, her voice shaking. “What are you doing here? How are you here?” There was a tinge of anger in her tone, the kind that masked fear.

    Matteo froze, his breath catching. “Ma, it’s me. Matteo. I’m Matteo, your son, please calm down” he said gently, stepping closer. “Who’s Léon?”

    She stared at him for a long moment, her eyes clouded with confusion. Then, like a tide retreating, recognition crept back into her expression. “Matteo,” she murmured, her voice softer now, though tinged with exhaustion. “Oh, my boy. I’m sorry. I—” She looked away, her hands clutching the shawl tighter. “I thought you were someone else.”

    “It’s okay,” Matteo said, crouching beside her chair. “I’m here. It’s me.”

    Drusilla reached out hesitantly, her fingers brushing his cheek. “You look so much like him sometimes,” she said. “Léon… your father. He’d hold his head just like that when he didn’t want anyone to know he was worried.”

    As much as Matteo knew, Drusilla had arrived in France from Italy in her twenties. He was born soon after. She had a job as a hairdresser in a little shop in Avignon, and did errands and chores for people in the village. For the longest time, it was just the two of them, as far as he’d recall.

    Matteo’s chest tightened. “You’ve never told me much about him.”

    “There wasn’t much to tell,” she said, her voice distant. “He came. He left. But he gave me something before he went. I always thought it would mean something, but…” Her voice trailed off as she reached into the pocket of her shawl and pulled out a small silver medallion, worn smooth with age. She held it out to him. “He said it was for you. When you were older.”

    Matteo took the medallion carefully, turning it over in his hand. It was a simple but well-crafted Saint Christopher medal, the patron saint of travellers, with faint initials etched on the back—L.A.. He didn’t recognize the letters, but the weight of it in his palm felt significant, grounding.

    “Why didn’t you give it to me before?” he asked, his voice quiet.

    “I forgot I had it,” she admitted with a faint, sad laugh. “And then I thought… maybe it was better to keep it. Something of his, for when I needed it. But I think it’s yours now.”

    Matteo slipped the medallion into his pocket, his mind spinning with questions he didn’t want to ask—not now. “Thanks, Ma,” he said simply.

    Drusilla sighed and leaned back in her chair, her gaze drifting to the small box he’d brought. “What’s that?”

    “Decorations,” Matteo said, seizing the moment to shift the focus. “I thought we could make your room a little festive for Christmas.”

    Her face softened, and she smiled faintly. “That’s nice,” she said. “I haven’t done that in… I don’t remember when.”

    Matteo opened the box and began pulling out garlands and baubles. As he worked, Drusilla watched silently, her hands still clutching the shawl. After a moment, she spoke again, her voice quieter now.

    “Do you remember our house in Crest?” she asked.

    Matteo paused, a tangle of tinsel in his hands. “Crest?” he echoed. “The place where you wanted to move to?”

    Drusilla nodded slowly. “I thought it would be nice. A co-housing place. I could grow old in the garden, and you’d be nearby. It seemed like a good idea then.”

    “It was a good idea,” Matteo said. “It just… didn’t happen.”

    “No,… you’re right” she said, collecting her thoughts for a moment, her gaze distant. “You were too restless. Always moving. I thought maybe you’d stay if we built something together.”

    Matteo swallowed hard, the weight of her words pressing on him. “I wanted to, Ma,” he said. “I really did.”

    Drusilla’s eyes softened, and she reached for his hand, her grip surprisingly strong. “You’re here now,” she said. “That’s what matters.”

    :fleuron2:

    They spent the next hour decorating the room. Matteo hung garlands around the window and draped tinsel over the small tree he’d set up on the table. Drusilla directed him with occasional nods and murmured suggestions, her moments of lucidity shining like brief flashes of sunlight through clouds.

    When the last bauble was hung, Drusilla smiled faintly. “It’s beautiful,” she said. “Like home.”

    Matteo sat beside her, emotion weighing on him more than the physical efforts and the early drive. He was thinking about the job offer in London, the chance to earn more money to ensure she had everything she needed here. But leaving her felt impossible, even as staying seemed equally unsustainable. He was afraid it was just a justification to avoid facing the slow fraying of her memories.

    Drusilla’s voice broke through his thoughts. “You’ll figure it out,” she said, her eyes closing as she leaned back in her chair. “You always do.”

    Matteo watched her as she drifted into a light doze, her breathing steady and peaceful. He reached into his pocket, his fingers brushing against the medallion. The weight of it felt like both a question and an answer—one he wasn’t ready to face yet.

    “Patron saint of travellers”, that felt like a sign, if not a blessing.

    #7653

    Matteo — Winter 2023: The Move

    The rumble of the moving truck echoed faintly in the quiet residential street as Matteo leaned against the open door, arms crossed, waiting for the signal to load the boxes. He glanced at the crisp winter sky, a pale gray threatening snow, and then at the house behind him. Its windows were darkened by empty rooms, their once-lived-in warmth replaced by the starkness of transition. The ornate names artistically painted on the mailbox struck him somehow. Amei & Tabitha M.: his clients for the day.

    The cold damp of London’s suburbia was making him long even more for the warmth of sunny days. With the past few moves he’s been managing for his company, the tipping had been generous; he could probably plan a spring break in South of France, or maybe make a more permanent move there.

    The sound of the doorbell brought him back from his rêverie.

    Inside the house, the faint sounds of boxes being taped and last-minute goodbyes carried through the hallways. Matteo had been part of these moves too many times to count now. People always left a little bit of themselves behind—forgotten trinkets, echoes of old conversations, or the faint imprint of a life lived. It was a rhythm he’d come to expect, and he knew his part in it: lift, carry, and disappear into the background.

    :fleuron2:

    Matteo straightened as the door opened and a girl that could have been in her early twenties, but looked like a teenager stepped out, bundled against the cold. She held a steaming mug in one hand and balanced a box awkwardly on her hip with the other.

    “That’s the last of it,” she called over her shoulder. “Mum, are you sure you don’t want me to take the notebooks?”

    “They’re fine in the car, Tabitha!” A voice—calm and steady, maybe tinged with weariness—floated from inside.

    The girl named Tabitha turned to Matteo, offering the box. “This is fragile,” she said, a smile tugging at her lips. “Be nice to it.”

    Matteo took the box carefully, glancing at the mug in her hand. “You’re not leaving that behind, are you?” he asked with a faint smile.

    Tabitha laughed. “This? No way. That’s my lifeline. The mug stays.”

    :fleuron2:

    As Matteo carried the box to the truck, his eyes caught on something inside—a weathered postcard tucked haphazardly between the pages of a journal. The image on the front was striking: a swirling green fairy, dancing above a glass of absinthe. La Fée Verte was scrawled in looping letters across the top.

    “Tabitha!” Her mother’s voice carried out to the driveway, and Matteo turned instinctively. She stepped out onto the porch, her scarf wrapped loosely around her neck, her breath visible in the chilly air. Matteo could see the resemblance—the same poise and humor in her gaze, though softened by something older, quieter.

    “Put this somewhere, will you” she said, holding up another postcard, this one with a faded image of a winding mountain road.

    Tabitha grinned, stepping forward to take it. “Thanks, Mum. That one’s special.” She tucked it into her coat pocket.

    “Special how?” her mother asked lightly.

    “It’s from Darius,” Tabitha said, her tone almost teasing. “… The one you never want to talk about.” she leaned teasingly. “One of his cryptic postcards —too bad I was too young to really remember him, he must have been fun to be around.”

    Matteo’s ears perked at the name, though he kept his head down, settling the box in place. It wasn’t unusual to overhear snippets like this during a move, but something about the unusual name roused his curiosity.

    “Why you want to keep those?” Amei asked, tilting her head.

    Tabitha shrugged. “They’re kind of… a map, I guess. Of people, not places.”

    Amei paused, her expression softening. “He was always good at that,” she murmured, almost to herself.

    :fleuron2:

    The conversation lingered in Matteo’s mind as the day went on. By the time the truck was loaded, and he’d helped arrange the last of the boxes in Amei’s new, smaller apartment, the name and the postcard had taken root.

    As Matteo stacked the final piece of furniture—a worn bookshelf—against the living room wall, he noticed Amei lingering near a window, her gaze distant.

    “It’s different, isn’t it?” she said suddenly, not looking at him.

    “Moving?” Matteo asked, unsure if the question was for him.

    “Starting over,” she clarified, her voice quieter now. “Feels smaller, even when it’s supposed to be lighter.”

    Matteo didn’t reply, sensing she wasn’t looking for an answer. He stepped back, nodding politely as she thanked him and disappeared into the kitchen.

    :fleuron2:

    The postcard stuck in his mind for days after. Matteo had heard of absinthe before, of course—its mystique, its history—but something about the way Tabitha had called the postcard a “map of people” resonated.

    By the time spring arrived, Matteo was wandering through Avignon, chasing vague curiosities and half-formed questions. When he saw Lucien crouched over his chalk labyrinth, the memory of the postcard rose unbidden.

    “Do you know where I can find absinthe?” he asked, the question more instinct than intent.

    Lucien’s raised eyebrow and faint smile felt like another piece clicking into place. The connections were there—threads woven in patterns he couldn’t yet see. But for the first time in months, Matteo felt he was back on the right path.

    #7652

    Darius: The Call Home

    South of France: Early 2023

    Darius stared at the cracked ceiling of the tiny room, the faint hum of a heater barely cutting through the January chill. His breath rose in soft clouds, dissipating like the ambitions that had once kept him moving. The baby’s cries from the next room pierced the quiet again, sharp and insistent. He hadn’t been sleeping well—not that he blamed the baby.

    The young couple, friends of friends, had taken him in when he’d landed back in France late the previous year, his travel funds evaporated and his wellness “influencer” groups struggling to gain traction. What had started as a confident online project—bridging human connection through storytelling and mindfulness—had withered under the relentless churn of algorithm changes and the oversaturated market: even in its infancy, AI and its well-rounded litanies seemed the ubiquitous answers to humanities’ challenges.

    “Maybe this isn’t what people need right now,” he had muttered during one of his few recent live sessions, the comment section painfully empty.

    The atmosphere in the apartment was strained. He felt it every time he stepped into the cramped kitchen, the way the couple’s conversation quieted, the careful politeness in their questions about his plans.

    “I’ve got some things in the works,” he’d say, avoiding their eyes.

    But the truth was, he didn’t.

    It wasn’t just the lack of money or direction that weighed on him—it was a gnawing sense of purposelessness, a creeping awareness that the threads he’d woven into his identity were fraying. He could still hear Éloïse’s voice in his mind sometimes, low and hypnotic: “You’re meant to do more than drift. Trust the pattern. Follow the pull.”

    The pull. He had followed it across continents, into conversations and connections that felt profound at the time but now seemed hollow, like echoes in an empty room.

     

    When his phone buzzed late one night, the sound startling in the quiet, he almost didn’t answer.

    “Darius,” his aunt’s voice crackled through the line, faint but firm. “It’s time you came home.”

    Arrival in Guadeloupe

    The air in Pointe-à-Pitre was thick and warm, clinging to his skin like a second layer. His aunt met him at the airport, her sharp gaze softening only slightly when she saw him.

    “You look thin,” she said, her tone clipped. “Let’s get you fed.”

    The ride to Capesterre-Belle-Eau was a blur of green —banana fields and palms swaying in the breeze, the mountains rising in the distance like sleeping giants. The scent of the sea mingled with the earthy sweetness of the land, a sharp contrast to the sterile chill of the south of France.

    “You’ll help with the house,” his aunt said, her hands steady on the wheel. “And the fields. Don’t think you’re here to lounge.”

    He nodded, too tired to argue.

    :fleuron2:

    The first few weeks felt like penance. His aunt was tireless, moving with an energy that gainsaid her years, barking orders as he struggled to keep up.

    “Your hands are too soft,” she said once, glancing at his blistered palms. “Too much time spent talking, not enough doing.”

    Her words stung, but there was no malice in them—only a brutal honesty that cut through his haze.

    Evenings were quieter, spent on the veranda with plates of steaming rice and codfish, with the backdrop of cicadas’ relentless and rhythmic agitation. She didn’t ask about his travels, his work, or the strange detours his life had taken. Instead, she told stories—of storms weathered, crops saved, neighbors who came together when the land demanded it.

    A Turning Point

    One morning, as the sun rose over the fields, his aunt handed him a machete.

    “Today, you clear,” she said.

    He stood among the ruined banana trees, their fallen trunks like skeletal remains of what had once been vibrant and alive. The air was heavy with the scent of damp earth and decay.

    With each swing of the machete, he felt something shift inside him. The physical labor, relentless and grounding, pulled him out of his head and into his body. The repetitive motion—strike, clear, drag—was almost meditative, a rhythm that matched the heartbeat of the land.

    By midday, his shirt clung to his back, soaked with sweat. His muscles ached, his hands stung, but for the first time in months, his mind felt quiet.

    As he paused to drink from a canteen, his aunt approached, a rare smile softening her stern features.

    “You’re starting to see it, aren’t you?” she said.

    “See what?”

    “That life isn’t just what you chase. It’s what you build.”

    :fleuron2:

    Over time, the work became less about obligation and more about integration. He began to recognize the faces of the neighbors who stopped by to lend a hand, their laughter and stories sending vibrant pulsating waves resonant of a community he hadn’t realized he missed.

    One evening, as the sun dipped low, a group gathered to share a meal. Someone brought out drums, the rhythmic beat carrying through the warm night air. Darius found himself smiling, his feet moving instinctively to the music.

    The trance of Éloïse’s words—the pull she had promised—dissipated like smoke in the wind. What remained was what mattered: it wasn’t the pull but the roots —the people, the land, the stories they shared.

    The Bell

    It was his aunt who rang the bell for dinner one evening, the sound sharp and clear, cutting through the humid air like a call to attention.

    Darius paused, the sound resonating in his chest. It reminded him of something—a faint echo from his time with Éloïse and Renard, but different. This was simpler, purer, untainted by manipulation.

    He looked at his aunt, who was watching him with a knowing smile. “You’ve been lost a long time, haven’t you?” she said quietly.

    Darius nodded, unable to speak.

    “Good,” she said. “It means you know the way back.”

    :fleuron2:

    By the time he wrote to Amei, his hand no longer trembled. “Guadeloupe feels like a map of its own,” he wrote, the words flowing easily. “its paths crossing mine in ways I can’t explain. It made me think of you. I hope you’re well.”

    For the first time in years, he felt like he was on solid ground—not chasing a pull, but rooted in the rhythm of the land, the people, and himself.

    The haze lifted, and with it came clarity and maybe hope. It was time to reconnect—not just with long-lost friends and shared ideals, but with the version of himself he thought he’d lost.

    #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:

    #7618

    Matteo Appears

    Matteo approached the table, a tray balanced effortlessly in one hand, his dark eyes flicking over the group as though cataloging details in an invisible ledger. His waistcoat, sharp and clean, gave him a practiced professionalism, but there was something else—a casual, unspoken authority that drew attention.

    “Good evening,” he began, his voice smooth and low, almost conspiratorial. Then, he froze for the briefest moment, his gaze shifting from face to face, the easy smile tightening at the corners.

    “Well,” Matteo said finally, his smile broadening as if he’d just solved a riddle. “Here you all are. Together, at last.”

    The group exchanged glances, each of them caught off-guard by the comment.

    “You say that like you’ve been expecting us,” Elara said, her tone measured but sharp, as if probing for variables.

    “Not expecting,” Matteo replied, his eyes glinting. “But hoping, perhaps. It’s… good to see you all like this. It fits, somehow.”

    “What fits?” Darius asked, leaning forward. His voice was lighter than Elara’s but carried a weight that suggested he wouldn’t let the question drop easily.

    Matteo’s smile deepened, though he didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he set down his tray and folded his hands in front of him, his posture relaxed but deliberate, as though he were balancing on the edge of some invisible line.

    “You’ve never all been here before,” he said, a simple statement that landed like a challenge.

    “Wait,” Amei said, narrowing her eyes. “You know us?”

    “Oh, I know you,” Matteo replied, his tone as light as if they were discussing the weather. “Individually, yes. But together? This is new. And it’s… remarkable.”

    “Remarkable how?” Lucien asked, his pencil stilled over his sketchbook.

    Matteo tilted his head, considering the question as though weighing how much to say. “Let’s just call it a rarity. Things don’t often align so neatly. It’s not every day you see… well, this.”

    He gestured toward them with a sweeping hand, as if the mere fact of their presence at the table was something extraordinary.

    “You’re being cryptic,” Elara said, her voice edged with suspicion.

    “It’s a talent,” Matteo replied smoothly.

    “Alright, hold on.” Darius leaned back, his chair creaking under him. “How do you know us? I’ve never been here before. Not once.”

    “Nor I,” Amei added, her voice soft but steady.

    Matteo raised an eyebrow, his smile taking on a knowing tilt. “No, not here. But that’s not the only place to know someone, is it?”

    The words hung in the air, unsettling and oddly satisfying at once.

    “You’re saying we’ve met you before?” Elara asked.

    Matteo inclined his head. “In a manner of speaking.”

    “That doesn’t make sense,” Lucien said, his voice quiet but firm.

    “Doesn’t it?” Matteo countered, his tone almost playful. “After all, do we ever truly remember every thread that weaves us together? Sometimes we only see the pattern when it’s complete.”

    A pause settled over the table, heavy with unspoken questions. Matteo shifted his weight, breaking the silence with an easy gesture.

    “It doesn’t matter how,” he said finally. “What matters is that you’re here. That’s what counts.”

    “For what?” Amei asked, her eyes narrowing.

    “For whatever happens next,” Matteo replied, as if the answer were obvious. Then he straightened, his professional mask sliding back into place with effortless grace.

    “Now, what can I bring you?” he asked, his tone light again, as though the previous exchange hadn’t happened.

    One by one, they placed their orders, though their minds were clearly elsewhere. Matteo scribbled in his notebook, his pen moving with deliberate strokes, and then he looked up once more.

    “Thank you for being here,” he said, his voice quieter this time. “It’s been… a long time coming.”

    And with that, he was gone, disappearing into the crowd with the same fluidity he’d arrived.

    They sat in silence for a moment, his words pressing down on them like a hand on a wound, familiar and foreign all at once.

    “What the hell was that?” Darius asked finally, breaking the spell.

    “Does he seem… different to you?” Amei asked, her voice distant.

    “He seems impossible,” Elara replied, her fingers tapping an unconscious rhythm on the table.

    “He remembered me,” Lucien said, almost to himself. “Something about absinthe.”

    “I’ve never even met him,” Elara said, her voice rising slightly. “But he knew… too much.”

    “And he didn’t explain anything,” Darius added, shaking his head.

    “Maybe he didn’t need to,” Amei said softly, her gaze fixed on the space Matteo had just vacated.

    They lapsed into silence again, the noise of the café returning in fits and starts, like an orchestra warming up after a pause. Somewhere, a glass clinked against porcelain; outside, the violinist struck a note so low it hummed against the windowpane.

    The four of them sat there, strangers and friends all at once, the questions left dangling between them like stars in a cloudy sky. Whatever Matteo had meant, it was clear this moment was no coincidence. It wasn’t an end, nor a beginning—it was the start of something unraveling, something they couldn’t yet see.

    And though none of them said it aloud, the thought was the same: What had happened before?

    :fleuron2:

    Quintessence: Reversing the Fifth

    #7550

    The fair was in full swing, with vibrant tents and colourful stalls bursting with activity. The smell of freshly popped corn mingled with the fragrance of exotic spices and the occasional whiff of magical incense. Frella turned her attention back to setting up her own booth. Her thoughts were a swirl of anxiety and curiosity. Malové’s sudden appearance at the fair could not be a mere coincidence, especially given the recent disruptions in the coven.

    Unbeknownst to Frella, Cedric Spellbind was nearby. His eyes, though hidden behind a pair of dark glasses, were fixated on Frella. He was torn between his duty to MAMA and his growing affection for her. He juggled his phone, checking missed calls and messages, while trying to keep a discreet distance. But he was drawn to her like moth to flame.

    As Frella was adjusting her booth, she felt a sudden chill and turned to find herself face-to-face with Cedric. He quickly removed his glasses and their eyes met; Cedric’s heart skipped a beat.

    Frella’s gaze was guarded. “Can I help you with something?” she asked, her tone icily polite.

    Cedric, flustered, stammered, “I—uh—I’m just here to, um, look around. Your booth looks, uh, fascinating.”

    Frella raised an eyebrow. “I see. Well, enjoy the fair.” She turned back to her preparations, but not before noticing a fleeting look of hurt in Cedric’s eyes.

    Cedric moved away, wrestling with his conflicting emotions. He checked to make sure his tracker was working, which tracked not just Frella’s movements  but those of her companions. He was determined to protect her from any potential threat, even if it meant risking his own standing with MAMA.

    As the day progressed, the fair continued to buzz with magical energy and intrigue. Frella worked her booth, engaging with curious tourists, all suitably fascinated with the protective qualities of hinges. Suddenly, Frella’s attention was drawn away from her display by a burst of laughter and squeals coming from nearby. Curiosity piqued, she made her way toward the source of the commotion.

    As she approached, she saw a crowd had gathered around a small, ornate tent. The tent’s entrance was framed by shimmering curtains, and an enchanting aroma of lavender and spices wafted through the air. Through the gaps in the curtains, Frella could see an array of magical trinkets and curiosities.Just as she was about to step closer, a peculiar sight caught her eye. Emerging from the tent was a girl wearing a rather large cloak and closely followed by a black cat. The girl looked bewildered, her wide eyes taking in the bustling fairground.

    Frella, intrigued and somewhat amused, approached the girl. “Hello there! I couldn’t help but notice you seem a bit lost. Are you okay?”

    The girl’s expression was a mix of confusion and wonder. “Oh, hello! I’m Arona, and this is Mandrake,” she said, bending down and patting the black cat, who gave a nonchalant twitch of his tail. “We were just trying to find the library in my time, and now we’re here. This isn’t a library by any chance?”

    Frella raised her eyebrows. “A library? No, this is a fair—a magical fair, to be precise.”

    Arona’s eyes widened further as she looked around again. “A fair? Well, it does explain the odd contraptions and the peculiar people. Anyway, that will teach me to use one of Sanso’s old time-travelling devices.”

    Truella wandered over to join the conversation, her curiosity evident. “Time-travelling device? That sounds fascinating. How did you end up here?”

    Arona looked sheepish. “I was trying to retrieve a rare book from a past century, and it seems I got my coordinates mixed up. Instead of the library, I ended up at this… um … delightful fair.”

    Frella chuckled. “Well, don’t worry, we can help you get back on track. Maybe we can find someone who can help with your time-travelling predicament.”

    Arona smiled, relieved. “Thank you! I really didn’t mean to intrude. And Mandrake here is quite good at keeping me company, but he’s not much help with directions.”

    Mandrake rolled his eyes and turned away, his disinterest in the conversation evident.

    As Frella and Truella led Arona to a quieter corner of the fair, Cedric Spellbind observed the scene with growing interest. His eyes were glued to Frella, but the appearance of the time-travelling girl and her cat added a new layer of intrigue. Cedric’s mission to spy on Frella had just taken an unexpected turn.

    #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?”

    #6243
    TracyTracy
    Participant

      William Housley’s Will and the Court Case

      William Housley died in 1848, but his widow Ellen didn’t die until 1872.  The court case was in 1873.  Details about the court case are archived at the National Archives at Kew,  in London, but are not available online. They can be viewed in person, but that hasn’t been possible thus far.  However, there are a great many references to it in the letters.

      William Housley’s first wife was Mary Carrington 1787-1813.  They had three children, Mary Anne, Elizabeth and William. When Mary died, William married Mary’s sister Ellen, not in their own parish church at Smalley but in Ashbourne.  Although not uncommon for a widower to marry a deceased wife’s sister, it wasn’t legal.  This point is mentioned in one of the letters.

      One of the pages of William Housley’s will:

      William Housleys Will

       

      An excerpt from Barbara Housley’s Narrative on the Letters:

      A comment in a letter from Joseph (August 6, 1873) indicated that William was married twice and that his wives were sisters: “What do you think that I believe that Mary Ann is trying to make our father’s will of no account as she says that my father’s marriage with our mother was not lawful he marrying two sisters. What do you think of her? I have heard my mother say something about paying a fine at the time of the marriage to make it legal.” Markwell and Saul in The A-Z Guide to Tracing Ancestors in Britain explain that marriage to a deceased wife’s sister was not permissible under Canon law as the relationship was within the prohibited degrees. However, such marriages did take place–usually well away from the couple’s home area. Up to 1835 such marriages were not void but were voidable by legal action. Few such actions were instituted but the risk was always there.

      Joseph wrote that when Emma was married, Ellen “broke up the comfortable home and the things went to Derby and she went to live with them but Derby didn’t agree with her so she left again leaving her things behind and came to live with John in the new house where she died.” Ellen was listed with John’s household in the 1871 census. 
      In May 1872, the Ilkeston Pioneer carried this notice: “Mr. Hopkins will sell by auction on Saturday next the eleventh of May 1872 the whole of the useful furniture, sewing machine, etc. nearly new on the premises of the late Mrs. Housley at Smalley near Heanor in the county of Derby. Sale at one o’clock in the afternoon.”

      There were hard feelings between Mary Ann and Ellen and her children. Anne wrote: “If you remember we were not very friendly when you left. They never came and nothing was too bad for Mary Ann to say of Mother and me, but when Robert died Mother sent for her to the funeral but she did not think well to come so we took no more notice. She would not allow her children to come either.”
      Mary Ann was still living in May 1872. Joseph implied that she and her brother, Will “intend making a bit of bother about the settlement of the bit of property” left by their mother. The 1871 census listed Mary Ann’s occupation as “income from houses.”

      In July 1872, Joseph introduced Ruth’s husband: “No doubt he is a bad lot. He is one of the Heath’s of Stanley Common a miller and he lives at Smalley Mill” (Ruth Heath was Mary Anne Housley’s daughter)
      In 1873 Joseph wrote, “He is nothing but a land shark both Heath and his wife and his wife is the worst of the two. You will think these is hard words but they are true dear brother.” The solicitor, Abraham John Flint, was not at all pleased with Heath’s obstruction of the settlement of the estate. He wrote on June 30, 1873: “Heath agreed at first and then because I would not pay his expenses he refused and has since instructed another solicitor for his wife and Mrs. Weston who have been opposing us to the utmost. I am concerned for all parties interested except these two….The judge severely censured Heath for his conduct and wanted to make an order for sale there and then but Heath’s council would not consent….” In June 1875, the solicitor wrote: “Heath bid for the property but it fetched more money than he could give for it. He has been rather quieter lately.”

      In May 1872, Joseph wrote: “For what do you think, John has sold his share and he has acted very bad since his wife died and at the same time he sold all his furniture. You may guess I have never seen him but once since poor mother’s funeral and he is gone now no one knows where.”

      In 1876, the solicitor wrote to George: “Have you heard of John Housley? He is entitled to Robert’s share and I want him to claim it.”

      Anne intended that one third of the inheritance coming to her from her father and her grandfather, William Carrington, be divided between her four nieces: Sam’s three daughters and John’s daughter Elizabeth.
      In the same letter (December 15, 1872), Joseph wrote:
      “I think we have now found all out now that is concerned in the matter for there was only Sam that we did not know his whereabouts but I was informed a week ago that he is dead–died about three years ago in Birmingham Union. Poor Sam. He ought to have come to a better end than that”

      However, Samuel was still alive was on the 1871 census in Henley in Arden, and no record of his death can be found. Samuel’s brother in law said he was dead: we do not know why he lied, or perhaps the brothers were lying to keep his share, or another possibility is that Samuel himself told his brother in law to tell them that he was dead. I am inclined to think it was the latter.

      Excerpts from Barbara Housley’s Narrative on the Letters continued:

      Charles went to Australia in 1851, and was last heard from in January 1853. According to the solicitor, who wrote to George on June 3, 1874, Charles had received advances on the settlement of their parent’s estate. “Your promissory note with the two signed by your brother Charles for 20 pounds he received from his father and 20 pounds he received from his mother are now in the possession of the court.”

      In December 1872, Joseph wrote: “I’m told that Charles two daughters has wrote to Smalley post office making inquiries about his share….” In January 1876, the solicitor wrote: “Charles Housley’s children have claimed their father’s share.”

      In the Adelaide Observer 28 Aug 1875

      HOUSLEY – wanted information
      as to the Death, Will, or Intestacy, and
      Children of Charles Housley, formerly of
      Smalley, Derbyshire, England, who died at
      Geelong or Creewick Creek Diggings, Victoria
      August, 1855. His children will hear of something to their advantage by communicating with
      Mr. A J. Flint, solicitor, Derby, England.
      June 16,1875.

      The Diggers & Diggings of Victoria in 1855. Drawn on Stone by S.T. Gill:

      Victoria Diggings, Australie

       

      The court case:

       Kerry v Housley.
      Documents: Bill, demurrer.
      Plaintiffs: Samuel Kerry and Joseph Housley.
      Defendants: William Housley, Joseph Housley (deleted), Edwin Welch Harvey, Eleanor Harvey (deleted), Ernest Harvey infant, William Stafford, Elizabeth Stafford his wife, Mary Ann Housley, George Purdy and Catherine Purdy his wife, Elizabeth Housley, Mary Ann Weston widow and William Heath and Ruth Heath his wife (deleted).
      Provincial solicitor employed in Derbyshire.
      Date: 1873

      From the Narrative on the Letters:

      The solicitor wrote on May 23, 1874: “Lately I have not written because I was not certain of your address and because I doubted I had much interesting news to tell you.” Later, Joseph wrote concerning the problems settling the estate, “You see dear brother there is only me here on our side and I cannot do much. I wish you were here to help me a bit and if you think of going for another summer trip this turn you might as well run over here.”

      In March 1873, Joseph wrote: “You ask me what I think of you coming to England. I think as you have given the trustee power to sign for you I think you could do no good but I should like to see you once again for all that. I can’t say whether there would be anything amiss if you did come as you say it would be throwing good money after bad.”

      In September 1872 Joseph wrote; “My wife is anxious to come. I hope it will suit her health for she is not over strong.” Elsewhere Joseph wrote that Harriet was “middling sometimes. She is subject to sick headaches. It knocks her up completely when they come on.” In December 1872 Joseph wrote, “Now dear brother about us coming to America you know we shall have to wait until this affair is settled and if it is not settled and thrown into Chancery I’m afraid we shall have to stay in England for I shall never be able to save money enough to bring me out and my family but I hope of better things.”
      On July 19, 1875 Abraham Flint (the solicitor) wrote: “Joseph Housley has removed from Smalley and is working on some new foundry buildings at Little Chester near Derby. He lives at a village called Little Eaton near Derby. If you address your letter to him as Joseph Housley, carpenter, Little Eaton near Derby that will no doubt find him.”

      In his last letter (February 11, 1874), Joseph sounded very discouraged and wrote that Harriet’s parents were very poorly and both had been “in bed for a long time.” In addition, Harriet and the children had been ill.
      The move to Little Eaton may indicate that Joseph received his settlement because in August, 1873, he wrote: “I think this is bad news enough and bad luck too, but I have had little else since I came to live at Kiddsley cottages but perhaps it is all for the best if one could only think so. I have begun to think there will be no chance for us coming over to you for I am afraid there will not be so much left as will bring us out without it is settled very shortly but I don’t intend leaving this house until it is settled either one way or the other. ”

      Joseph’s letters were much concerned with the settling of their mother’s estate. In 1854, Anne wrote, “As for my mother coming (to America) I think not at all likely. She is tied here with her property.” A solicitor, Abraham John Flint of 42 Full Street Derby, was engaged by John following the death of their mother. On June 30, 1873 the solicitor wrote: “Dear sir, On the death of your mother I was consulted by your brother John. I acted for him with reference to the sale and division of your father’s property at Smalley. Mr. Kerry was very unwilling to act as trustee being over 73 years of age but owing to the will being a badly drawn one we could not appoint another trustee in his place nor could the property be sold without a decree of chancery. Therefore Mr. Kerry consented and after a great deal of trouble with Heath who has opposed us all throughout whenever matters did not suit him, we found the title deeds and offered the property for sale by public auction on the 15th of July last. Heath could not find his purchase money without mortaging his property the solicitor which the mortgagee employed refused to accept Mr. Kerry’s title and owing to another defect in the will we could not compel them.”

      In July 1872, Joseph wrote, “I do not know whether you can remember who the trustee was to my father’s will. It was Thomas Watson and Samuel Kerry of Smalley Green. Mr. Watson is dead (died a fortnight before mother) so Mr. Kerry has had to manage the affair.”

      On Dec. 15, 1972, Joseph wrote, “Now about this property affair. It seems as far off of being settled as ever it was….” and in the following March wrote: “I think we are as far off as ever and farther I think.”

      Concerning the property which was auctioned on July 15, 1872 and brought 700 pounds, Joseph wrote: “It was sold in five lots for building land and this man Heath bought up four lots–that is the big house, the croft and the cottages. The croft was made into two lots besides the piece belonging to the big house and the cottages and gardens was another lot and the little intake was another. William Richardson bought that.” Elsewhere Richardson’s purchase was described as “the little croft against Smith’s lane.” Smith’s Lane was probably named for their neighbor Daniel Smith, Mrs. Davy’s father.
      But in December 1872, Joseph wrote that they had not received any money because “Mr. Heath is raising all kinds of objections to the will–something being worded wrong in the will.” In March 1873, Joseph “clarified” matters in this way: “His objection was that one trustee could not convey the property that his signature was not guarantee sufficient as it states in the will that both trustees has to sign the conveyance hence this bother.”
      Joseph indicated that six shares were to come out of the 700 pounds besides Will’s 20 pounds. Children were to come in for the parents shares if dead. The solicitor wrote in 1873, “This of course refers to the Kidsley property in which you take a one seventh share and which if the property sells well may realize you about 60-80 pounds.” In March 1873 Joseph wrote: “You have an equal share with the rest in both lots of property, but I am afraid there will be but very little for any of us.”

      The other “lot of property” was “property in Smalley left under another will.” On July 17, 1872, Joseph wrote: “It was left by my grandfather Carrington and Uncle Richard is trustee. He seems very backward in bringing the property to a sale but I saw him and told him that I for one expect him to proceed with it.” George seemed to have difficulty understanding that there were two pieces of property so Joseph explained further: “It was left by my grandfather Carrington not by our father and Uncle Richard is the trustee for it but the will does not give him power to sell without the signatures of the parties concerned.” In June 1873 the solicitor Abraham John Flint asked: “Nothing has been done about the other property at Smalley at present. It wants attention and the other parties have asked me to attend to it. Do you authorize me to see to it for you as well?”
      After Ellen’s death, the rent was divided between Joseph, Will, Mary Ann and Mr. Heath who bought John’s share and was married to Mary Ann’s daughter, Ruth. Joseph said that Mr. Heath paid 40 pounds for John’s share and that John had drawn 110 pounds in advance. The solicitor said Heath said he paid 60. The solicitor said that Heath was trying to buy the shares of those at home to get control of the property and would have defied the absent ones to get anything.
      In September 1872 Joseph wrote that the lawyer said the trustee cannot sell the property at the bottom of Smalley without the signatures of all parties concerned in it and it will have to go through chancery court which will be a great expense. He advised Joseph to sell his share and Joseph advised George to do the same.

      George sent a “portrait” so that it could be established that it was really him–still living and due a share. Joseph wrote (July 1872): “the trustee was quite willing to (acknowledge you) for the portrait I think is a very good one.” Several letters later in response to an inquiry from George, Joseph wrote: “The trustee recognized you in a minute…I have not shown it to Mary Ann for we are not on good terms….Parties that I have shown it to own you again but they say it is a deal like John. It is something like him, but I think is more like myself.”
      In September 1872 Joseph wrote that the lawyer required all of their ages and they would have to pay “succession duty”. Joseph requested that George send a list of birth dates.

      On May 23, 1874, the solicitor wrote: “I have been offered 240 pounds for the three cottages and the little house. They sold for 200 pounds at the last sale and then I was offered 700 pounds for the whole lot except Richardson’s Heanor piece for which he is still willing to give 58 pounds. Thus you see that the value of the estate has very materially increased since the last sale so that this delay has been beneficial to your interests than other-wise. Coal has become much dearer and they suppose there is coal under this estate. There are many enquiries about it and I believe it will realize 800 pounds or more which increase will more than cover all expenses.” Eventually the solicitor wrote that the property had been sold for 916 pounds and George would take a one-ninth share.

      January 14, 1876:  “I am very sorry to hear of your lameness and illness but I trust that you are now better. This matter as I informed you had to stand over until December since when all the costs and expenses have been taxed and passed by the court and I am expecting to receive the order for these this next week, then we have to pay the legacy duty and them divide the residue which I doubt won’t come to very much amongst so many of you. But you will hear from me towards the end of the month or early next month when I shall have to send you the papers to sign for your share. I can’t tell you how much it will be at present as I shall have to deduct your share with the others of the first sale made of the property before it went to court.
      Wishing you a Happy New Year, I am Dear Sir, Yours truly
      Abram J. Flint”

      September 15, 1876 (the last letter)
      “I duly received your power of attorney which appears to have been properly executed on Thursday last and I sent it on to my London agent, Mr. Henry Lyvell, who happens just now to be away for his annual vacation and will not return for 14 or 20 days and as his signature is required by the Paymaster General before he will pay out your share, it must consequently stand over and await his return home. It shall however receive immediate attention as soon as he returns and I hope to be able to send your checque for the balance very shortly.”

      1874 in chancery:

      Housley Estate Sale

      #4591
      ÉricÉric
      Keymaster

        “And what do you make of this scuba diving cat, Albie?”
        “It was diving for pearls I guess… I hope! Had enough of all those tourists & diving rescues, the Doline used to be much quieter, the last thing we need now is another construction work for a high-rise 5 star hotel!”

        #279

        Once Illi had realized she was dead and could ‘go’ anywhere she liked simply by creating the ‘place’ around her, she decided to take a long relaxing holiday on a deserted tropical island. She would float in the warm lagoon, feast on coconuts and pina coladas and mangoes, play with the dancing lemurs and build fantastic sand castles on the beaches. As she visualized it, it appeared as if by magic all around her…the sun warm on her head, the sand between her toes, the gentle breeze fragrant with exotic blooms and the sound of gossiping parrots filled her senses. She closed her eyes and flung her arms wide in appreciation for the physical joys she had recreated, breathed deeply and relaxed for the first time since she had died. Finally, she felt like she knew where she was, even if that ‘somewhere’ was as ‘nowhere’ as ‘anywhere’ else, just another ‘elsewhere’ really…..

        Illi stretched out on her back on the golden sand and squinted up at the cloudless deep blue sky. How nice, she thought, not to have any aches and pains, not to have to worry about shifting and those bloody belief systems, how simply lovely to just BE, with no perceived responsibilities, no interruptions…

        Just then out of the corner of her eye, Illi saw movement in the sky. Something was descending onto the island. Illi couldn’t make out what it was, and wished she had a pair of binoculars. Silly Illi, she said to herself, reaching for the binoculars that had appeared beside her. I keep forgetting I can create anything at all.

        Holy Moly! A great fat roly poly nun with a huge jolly grin was wafting down from the heavens, with an irridescent turquoise fairy in tow. They were landing on her island! We’ll see about that! Illi jumped to her feet and stomped off the beach and into the mangroves, sloshing angrily through the watery roots….. until she realized she could hover above the ground, which was a much easier way to travel.

        Hovering was much quieter too, and the jolly fat nun and the bluegreen fairy were quite unaware that Illi was peering at them from behind a peachy hibiscus bush. In fact, the blooms on the hibiscus had grown to a most ridiculous size, and Illi could hardly see past them. She hovered to the side a bit, and decided on impulse to make her presence known to the intruders.

        BOUH! :yahoo_skull:

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