andy sharma.

Parcel addressed to ANDY SHARMA, dated mid March 1889 Sent by GUILLERMO DE LEON, dated early March 1889  

The parcel contains an Original Kodak Camera, as released in 1889, along with a roll of film and a leather carrying case.  

The attached card reads: 

For Andy,

You will find this letter accompanies a parcel now in your possession. They call it a “Kodak,” I believe, though I may be wrong. The names of these silly little trinkets are fast becoming more and more incomprehensible to me, though I suspect you will find some joy in it.

This tower is rather ugly, but I’m afraid this is the only card they possess at the moment.

(Sgd.) Gilly DL.

There were few people Andy would willingly get lost with, and Puck from A Midsummer Night’s Dream wasn’t one of them. But he didn’t mind getting lost with Feriha, even though she had promised that she knew where she was going, and now he was sure that she didn’t. Because as they had wandered the hedge maze at Ravensmoor over the past half hour, he’d slowly realized that while his friend looked at home among the greenery—looking delicate and fairylike in her tulle dress and gossamer wings, with a crown of flowers woven into her long, wavy brown hair—she was also majestically, spectacularly tipsy.

“Feriha, please.” He sighed from his crouched position along the path, lowering his brand-new Kodak camera to look up at her. “If you keep pulling faces, it’ll get stuck that way.” Hearing his mother’s words come out of his own mouth made Andy laugh, the sound rich and warm as he shook his head. “Yeah, I’m not sure if these photographs are going to frighten ghosts away or call to them. Can I please have one presentable photograph come out of this impromptu photoshoot, Ri?” he pleaded. “For old times’ sake.” A grin: “I need to show Gilly that his gift had some good use.”

It wasn’t entirely well-mannered to look a gift horse in the mouth, but there were times when it seemed to be necessary. Case in point: Andy Sharma’s surprising invitation to the Spring Equinox Ball. It had seemed like an adventure when the ostentatious black carriage appeared at his doorstep earlier that afternoon, but the two-hour ride, his fruitless questioning of the masked footman, and his maddeningly opaque conversations with the mysterious strangers had left him with more questions than answers—so he’d taken it upon himself to do a little exploring of his own. which was what led him up multiple staircases to the library, which was... something else. 

As Andy stood in the middle of the grand library, he gazed up in awe at the endless rows of leather-bound books and other equipment, from a large globe dotted with scrawled inscriptions to an antique revolving reader. He couldn’t help being reminded of university—though it baffled him now, as it sometimes did, that some people’s earnings outstripped that of an educational institution—and he had just stopped in front of a bookcase with particularly colorful spines, a hand on his chin as he pondered their titles, when he saw the shadow at the corner of his eye move. 

I have met hundreds of women throughout my life. Thousands, perhaps, if I squint (or round up generously). But now I can say with utter certainty that Lady has the most gorgeous hair of them all. Maybe she's born with it; maybe it's the fact that I brush her hair daily. Twice a day, in fact, as you requested when you visited before departing for Yorkshire.

But honestly, Lady has been a delight. It has been a bit of an adjustment having a little Yorkie underfoot at home, but my landlady Mrs. Birdwhistle once had a Yorkie of her own and said that Lady is far better behaved than hers ever was. And she has been both a good distraction from the occasional strangeness here in London and a good foot warmer. (That is Lady’s idea, by the way; I don't ask her to curl up at my feet, but she does, and both of us are all the happier for it.)

On a non-animal-related note, I hope that Harrogate has been treating you and Pearl well. I’m sure it’s colder there than it is here, but I know that you need a change of pace. All of us do, but you most of all. I do miss our dinners, though; I’ve bumped into Rahat several times, but conversation is much more fun at your dining table, with you. What are you liking most about Harrogate? Has Pearl picked up any more of those terrifying dolls she loves? Perhaps they have a Harrogate-inspired version, with the doll in a spa.

I don’t want this letter to be too long, so I’ll end with this: a photograph of Lady during one of our morning walks. (Feriha and Zeki often join us, though they aren’t pictured here.) Lady has made new friends, as well as an adamant suitor, a King Charles Spaniel named Oliver. And, yes, underneath all that hair, she has her little winter boots on.

[Attached is a photograph of Lady looking majestic, her long, glossy coat flowing in the wind.]

I hope you’re staying safe and that your mind is a little more at peace, Daya. Have a good holiday with Pearl, and I hope to hear from you soon. (Lady says hello!)

Your friend,

[Hard to tell whether or not the undertaker's had a bad morning that day or no, but one might be astonished to learn that reading Anand Sharma's letter has, in fact, effortlessly pulled a genuine laugh from them. They write back some time in the day.]

RAHAT: Andy,

RAHAT: What a surprise. One never expects to find a man with a pigeon and a rolled up note standing outside their door at seven in the morning. I am honoured to have been chosen as your writing partner for this endeavour, and I appreciate the effort it must have taken to fit your many thoughts in such a small space.

RAHAT: Will you be passing by with copies of the photographs? I don't suppose you could attach one to a pigeon, although seeing that would be something.

RAHAT: I have not named my mannequins, though, Andy. You named them yourself. The last time you visited, you inexplicably called the one in the dress Marjorie. You did this as though it were fact. That said, please feel free to name the one in the suit as well. They are both recovering steadily after the vandalisation.

RAHAT: Thank you for taking the time to write. I laughed. I am hoping the bird finds you well.

RAHAT: Best, Rahat Zaman

RAHAT: PS. You will be pleased to discover, as I was, that the messenger person's name is Randall. Randy, for short.

ANDY: Rahat,

ANDY: Considering how small a pigeon is (and how delicate its legs!), perhaps it's best that Albert doesn't carry the photos to you. The package itself would be light, but a thick, sturdy envelope to keep the prints' shape would increase the drag and most likely Albert's chances of flying into a pipe and flipping over multiple times (as Polly and I witnessed acrobats doing at the F.F. circus).

ANDY: That is to say that yes, I will drop by within the week! But I might just stand outside, since whenever I enter your shop, I seem to forget something. (Thank you for returning my umbrella, by the way. Its absence from my life, and the umbrella rack by the door, was very much noted.)

ANDY: Is that so! Marjorie isn't named Marjorie! Well, she is now. Ha ha. Thank YOU for the honour, and in my humble opinion, the mannequin in a suit looks like a Tim. Short for Timothy... McGraw.

ANDY: And I'm very pleased to know that you laughed. [Struck-through: It's possible! Hurrah!] I hope this little note brightened up your day in some way as well. Have a good week.

ANDY: Cheers, Andy

ANDY: P.S. Our messenger person is named Randy! Like Rahat and Andy! Brilliant, incredible, show-stopping. Please send him my regards.

His words hit her first, and anything she might’ve said dies in her throat. The hurt in his voice lands second, because she’s always listening to him, even when it comes to the smallest things. ( Even when she doesn’t want to. ) Her guilt comes third, the final blow in a triad of consequences catching up to her. As he moves past her and into the house, he hands her an envelope, and Feriha knows whatever is in it has been enough to bring Andy right to her doorstep, face graver than she’s ever seen it. 

She shuts the door behind her and leans her back against it, putting distance between her and where Andy stands some steps further down the hallway. It crosses her mind to just throw the whole envelope away, but she can’t run from this, not with his indecipherable expression pinning her in place. So she opens it, eyes wide and a chill running down her spine as she takes in just what was on those dry plates Jack so kindly delivered, tied with a bow. I have been watching, he’d written. Both fear and indignant anger flash through her, and something about it makes her bite back a hollow, humorless laugh. The Ripper can post letters all over London and commit gruesome crimes but can’t get photos developed? 

Even now, in her own mind, she deflects, though her focus is inevitably torn back to the shots in her hands. A young woman laughs and smiles for the unseen camera, her gaze always to the side, never straight ahead. Her attire is far from the silk dresses Feriha wears to the parties of London’s richest, but it is still unmistakably herself splashed across these photographs, certainly recognizable at first glance to those who know her—

Oh.

Her gaze travels to Andy’s back, and it hits her just what she’s put him through. I shouldn’t have asked him, she thinks, then— No, I should’ve told him. Should’ve warned him about the dry plates, should’ve told him I was in Whitechapel, shouldn’t have kept it quiet. Whether a misguided attempt at not making him worry or the selfish desire to carry on as she pleased without being discouraged or disapproved of, keeping Andy in the dark has massively backfired. He’s hurt and betrayed and maybe even angry, and she should apologize, she wants to, but she has never been quite so good at taking accountability. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. But then he turns and looks at her, and she flinches. “I didn’t promise!” In the face of his sharp tone, she lashes out. 

“I didn’t actually promise anything. And I wasn’t ever alone. I was—” She stops there, refusing to drag Polly and Link down with her, even just by association. This is her fault. “You can guess who.” Her voice goes flat. “They came with a letter. Suppose you should know about that, too.”

------

He never wanted to be angry with Feriha. It wasn’t just that it wasn’t his place—she had her brother and Daya to do that for her—but because everything he associated with her was light: her laughter brightening up the office of The Tribune, their nearly disastrous boat rides at the nearby park, Feriha lazily draped across a sofa and talking about her day as he sat on the floor giving Zeki the biggest tummy rubs he could ever give a dog. Being upset like this felt strange, wrong, as if he were stepping over the boundary they’d had for so long. Because he was her friend—not her guardian, or her keeper, but her friend.

For a moment after his last words, Andy almost thought he was irrational for being upset—that maybe he’d come on too strong. Then Feriha lashed out, confirming his fears, and he let out a hollow laugh, something jagged lodging itself in his chest at her words. “What—are you really pulling that with me?” I didn’t promise—they were childish words taking advantage of a loophole, and it hurt, somehow, to realize that she had set herself apart from him, as if he were just another authority figure she needed to defy. As if all he wanted was to keep her from doing as she pleased. “It was as good as a promise, Ri. You know it.” You know it. 

The rational part of Andy knew that it wasn’t Feriha’s fault that a madman was leaving a bloody trail of bodies around London, or that said madman was fascinated by her. But watching the dry plates develop into images earlier that morning, a confusing jumble of emotions had settled in his stomach like lead—and here, in her home, he exhaled sharply, running his fingers through his hair, pressing his fingers to his forehead as if it would make his head hurt less. When he finally spoke again, his voice was more composed, more measured, though something churned beneath it, raw. “Do you think I’m upset just because you did something I didn’t want you to do?” Andy’s lips twisted into a rueful smile, thinking of the things he knew she hated: society’s norms. People trying to stamp out every ounce of independence she had, in order to transform her into someone she wasn’t. “I just—I don’t like you being in danger, Ri. And perhaps everyone is, but that finger, those photographs... they were directed specifically at you. Call me a coward if you’d like—” He finally raised his eyes to meet hers again, a sardonic chuckle low in his throat as he remembered how the specter haunting him had all but called him one. “—but it frightened me. Sitting there in my darkroom, watching those prints develop one by one. Wondering if one day I would receive more, worse photos in the mail, not from you, but of you. And for what reason?” His heart hurt, and he pushed away the images that arose in his mind—horrible, twisted thoughts that would make their way into his nightmares if he let them stay any longer than a moment. “Help me understand, Ri, because you’re smarter than this.”

ANDY SHARMA AS GULLIVER FROM GULLIVER’S TRAVELS

Andy is much more used to being behind a camera than being in front of one, but he gamely steps up to the challenge in an outfit inspired by the protagonist of Jonathan Swift’s four-part satirical work Gulliver’s Travels. 

With the help of costumier friends, Andy manages to put together a presentable eighteenth-century costume in green and gold, complete with a tricorne hat and a first edition copy of the book itself. The highlight of his outfit? The embroidered 6-inch tall Lilliputians climbing up his fancy breeches, and, in one of his pockets, a little Polly-and-Feriha-sized doll that seems to wave hello at whoever sees it.

Oculus || Carrington & Andy

Where: A cafe near the East End When: midday, early February, 1889 Who: Carrington and @andyxsharma​

If Carrington were a drinking man, he might’ve spent the last few days in a far less sober state. The research he was doing was taxing on a good day, but when it was research that could save someone’s life - and possibly their immortal soul - it was all the more harrowing a task. But Carrington wasn’t a drinking man. And since he wasn’t, he would settle for the next best thing. Coffee. Strong enough to hold a horseshoe upright if one was dipped in the pot. So that explained his presence in one of the small corner cafes that bordered the East End.

Which was, as it turned out, serendipitous.

It was a complete accident that he saw the photographs. He had simply glanced over at the right moment as he was making his way towards a table in the corner, and there they were. In the possession of a gentleman that stared at them over with an expression that could be called thoughtful, but might have leaned a bit further towards uncertainty. Either way, the photographs instantly caught the priest’s attention, and he knew he couldn’t leave the cafe without speaking to their owner. Which meant he had to find a reason to speak to him.

But one couldn’t simply approach a stranger and start jabbering away about spirits and demons and the like. Not if they wanted to be taken seriously. Which Carrington did. Because the things he was involved with were serious. Deadly serious. So it took but a moment for the priest to make a decision.

“Pardon me,” Carrington said, putting on his best amiable, but slightly sheepish smile as he approached the man. “I don’t mean to pry, but I was passing by and couldn’t help but notice your photographs.” Carrington tipped his chin towards the pictures. “How on earth did you create such extraordinary images?”

The priest was doubtful that there was a photographic technique currently in use that could create such disturbing images. He made it a point to stay up to date on such things, as many photographs could be easily faked if one knew how. But something about these pictures screamed authenticity, and a familiar icy prickle stirred to life at the base of Carrington’s spine as he waited to see if the man would answer his question, or tell him to piss off.

------

( 🎵 ) Andy rarely forgot a face. It was something that helped him in his line of work; faces shifted over the years, changing hairstyles and facial hair obscuring features and making strangers out of people he knew, but he was good at picking out details—minute nicks from men’s razors, beauty marks, all of it—that helped him put names to faces. But there were some faces that were best left forgotten. Photographs that he wished he hadn’t taken, so that he wouldn’t have to remember them.

The photographer had seen strange photographs over the past few months. In fact, he’d even taken some, showing them to Magdalena and putting their heads together to figure out what on earth they were seeing. But though he had set up the photography equipment in Muiris Doyle’s parlor during the seance that night, his camera had gone off on its own one, two, three times—each quick, bright flash startling himself and Daya in the middle of his conversation with the presence that haunted him. 

His surprise could be seen in the photographs spread out in front of him at the cafe that morning: the wide eyes in his brown face, lips parted as he began to speak. But that wasn’t all; in front of Andy was a tall, dark, spindly figure, black and black and black, coming progressively closer in each succeeding photograph, leaning down until its face—wreathed in shadow yet strange and jagged and wrong—waited a breath’s away from Andy and his blissfully ignorant, unseeing eyes. And there was something wrong with Daya in them, too, because her face and body were shrouded in a cloud of gray so deep that it was nearly black, her beautiful features harsh and pinched and unrecognizable through the strange mist, hair seemingly damp and wet on her neck even if he knew that she had been completely dry. Even if he knew that they both had been.

Andy had never had trouble bringing work home before. He loved his job. But now he wanted to keep his ever-rising dread from infiltrating the home he shared with his ever-mysterious roommate and his landlady. To give that strange presence in his room—which had scratched out the eyes in nearly every photograph he kept in there—less of a reason to bother him again. So he tried not to think about that thing when he was alone. Not its strange, gaunt figure. Not its voice. The only problem was that sometimes, keeping his work out in the open meant exposing it to people who might see it.

T̶̋̉h̴̐̈e̸͐͝ ̷̮̿U̴̞̚n̴̳̂d̸̘̋e̶͎͂ṟ̷̍t̶̹͝ä̵́̏k̷͙͌é̸͛r̸̞̈́ and The Elf: A Holiday Story 🎄