&&

“Eye-opening?” He asked, trying his best not to look too excited about the possibility of a story he didn’t know. The King owed Tim nothing. Technically, if he wanted, King Arthur could likely kick Tim out of the country entirely. He was just so maddeningly curious. “How so, Your Majesty?”

He hummed. “Plenty a fortune be foretold at a party, no? I would think it were all for entertainment. I would now like to see some of these predictions come true.

His gaze flicked back to her, gentler now. "These men aren't always thinking that way. Some of them are thinking about money. Land. Pride. Being proven right." A faint, rueful smile crossed his face. "Which is a dangerous thing, I've found. Men will make anything complicated if it means they don't have to feel guilty."

He noticed a few glances turning toward her, so he shifted slightly, standing just enough in front of her to make it seem as though they were both only listening. "If you're taking notes," he added, nodding toward her notebook, "don't only write down what they say. Write down what they refuse to answer. That usually tells you more." Then his smile warmed, a little teasing again. "And try not to look quite so clever while doing it. You'll frighten them."

Harriett nodded. "They don't know because they don't want to know and think we won't notice otherwise," she said. "Waiting is so... boring," her brows furrowed a bit more. The idea of just sitting and waiting and wanting did not seem to suit her the way it suited other ladies. She wanted books and ideas and wanted to know more, letting people know that her ideas were actually just as important as any other. Was it a long shot from happening? Absolutely. Was she still stubborn enough to keep trying? Absolutely.

She gave him a sideways glance. "Do you intend on helping me then?" she asked suddenly, an idea building in her head. At his advice, she couldn't help but giggle a bit, looking at her notebook again. "Then I'd have everything noted and can tell them that they are wrong." She'd find a strong argument, already listening to the debate was tiring enough, and it was easy to find a hole in every argument there.

A brow raised. "No. What he and my sister have been as a match is one of their own choosing," she huffed. "One might say it is a rightful match," she pursed her lips. "Do you have something against either one of them or is it mere jealousy?" she asked. She trusted her sister's judgement, glad that it was Elizabeth who helped bring the family back above the water.

"Trust..." Harriett said slowly, pulling out a small purse from her pocket. "That I am always prepared, as a lady should be," she said without missing a beat. She really hoped luck would be on her side. She had spent time watching her fathers deal cards, studying the players and their movements, vital to keeping a face that did not invite doubt.

"irises, you say?" her voice is smooth, yet coated in a thick romanian accent, as she gestures for him to follow her to another section of the shop. "you are in luck, sir." she stops before a display of deep purple bearded-irises, her hand showcasing her pride. "i am a keen lover of irises," she was a keen lover of all flowers if it brought her clients, "you have the choice of the classic bearded iris, a well understood flower to mean hope and wisdom."

"or, i may interest you, in the dutch iris - late in bloom, but perfect in any home." features are soft and convey an expanse of knowledge for flora, "an iris that signifies bravery and positive relationships."

"They are a favorite at home. The color reminds me so much of the rainbow. We used to have a clear view of the skies. I suppose the name is fitting because of the background and who the flower is named after?" Laurence offered her a warm smile. "Hope and wisdom, yes. That is what we all yearn for in life," he said, feeling slightly melancholy about it. Memories were strong with imagery and scents and he hoped to keep that close. Thankfully, Vivi didn't hate him too much for moving them to London.

He gave her a curious look. "Dutch iris, now that is one I have not yet come across," he said, smiling more to himself. "I may have to take a few of those as well. They are quite beautiful,"

|| LOCATION || Harrington Book Shop; before the fair

After her time with Tim had come to its blissful end, Ceara felt much lighter and treated herself to a trip to the book shop. She had promised herself not to splurge, to merely investigate any new arrivals or secondary volumes to her existing tomes. Brushing her fingers along thick, textured spines, she took a deep breath and worked to decompress from the day’s events, so far.

But as Ceara opened her eyes, she spotted a familiar head of curls and focused eyes between the bookstore shelves. It seemed she could spot a Barnett sister anywhere now that she’d met three out of their four. Rounding the corner to the next aisle, she smiled at Harriet.

“Ms. Barnett,” she greeted with a smile. “I’ve not seen you in a while. How’ve you been enjoying the book we discussed? Rife with adventure, I hope?”

Ceara always ensured she had a book to read to keep her mind sharp, even when the events of the ball plagued her mind and reading was difficult. She did not have a knack for adventure novels, but she was not against reading them. Although, she had Harriett to thank for expanding her tastes on the matter.

She was staying out of trouble, wasn't that enough?

Hearing her name, she spun around. "I loved it," Harriett said with a bit more energy in her voice. "I finished it in just one night," she smiled. "I am looking for another one to start after the fair,"she nodded.

“Have you read anything of interest lately?”

(Starter for @mcstardently)

“Fammi capire bene,” Allow me to understand this correctly, Niccolò said for perhaps the sixth time, pressing two fingers against his temples as though he might physically keep his thoughts from escaping. A headache had plagued him since Francesca crossed his threshold, she regarded it as an unfortunate coincidence. “Sei stata maledetta da una…” You were cursed by a…

“Una strega,” A witch, Francesca supplied, with the patience of a teacher explaining the obvious to an exceptionally slow pupil. She packed fresh tobacco into her pipe, careful not to spill any upon the rug. “Abbiamo avuto una breve relazione. È finita… piuttosto male.” We entertained a brief affair. It concluded… rather badly.

“Hai fatto impiccare suo fratello.” “You got her brother executed.”

“È una ricostruzione inutilmente melodrammatica.” That is an unnecessarily dramatic interpretation.

“È l’unica possibile.” It is the only possible interpretation.

She struck the flint. The tobacco crackled softly before surrendering to flame, the first lungful burned agreeably. How lovely England was already. 

“Stavamo conducendo una ricerca davvero straordinaria,” We were conducting rather extraordinary research together, she continued. “Lui era semplicemente l’elemento meno brillante della coppia.” He simply happened to be the less brilliant half of it.

A pillow struck her pipe, thrown with no more force than a sigh might carry, Francesca spluttered around a mouthful of smoke and lifted one middle finger in eloquent offence.

“Stronzo.” Bastard.

“Assassina.” Murderer.

“È morto perché la Chiesa lo ha scambiato per me.” He died because the Church mistook him for me.

“L’hanno scambiato per te perché i tuoi esperimenti erano abbastanza blasfemi da mettere a disagio perfino Satana.” They mistook him because your experiments were blasphemous enough to make Satan uncomfortable.

“Secondo uomini convinti che lavarsi fosse un peccato.” According to men who believed bathing was sinful.

Niccolò looked heavenward, a saint long acquainted with impossible miracles.

“E poi,” And afterwards, Niccolò pressed on, insufferably composed, as though her entire ruin were some drawing-room amusement staged for his benefit. “la strega ti ha detto che soltanto il bacio del vero amore poteva salvarti.” the witch declared that only true love’s kiss could save you.

Francesca stared then she laughed, since the absurdity of it demanded some acknowledgement. She considered, briefly and with real affection, breaking his nose.

“Mi ha maledetta a morire, imbecille.” She cursed me to die, you imbecile.

Months before she fled Italy, Francesca had taken a lover whom the countryside named a witch. Whether the woman possessed any commerce with devils or spirits, Francesca never troubled herself to discover, she had loved too many remarkable people to be distracted by questions of sorcery. 

If love, indeed, could be called the proper word. Curiosity had always proved stronger than attachment; she delighted in brilliant minds, in clever mouths, in hands that knew where to linger, she loved conversation that lasted until dawn and kisses that made reason briefly surrender, yet the instant affection demanded permanence, she departed before promises could be spoken aloud. Intimacy delighted her; dependence suffocated her. Every affair served as a pleasant interruption before she returned, wholly content, to the only devotion that had never disappointed her: her work.

Amala understood this better than most. Their parting might have resembled all the others had Francesca’s experiments remained concealed. Obsessed with dragging medicine beyond the timid reach of universities and priests alike, she pursued discoveries no respectable scholar dared acknowledge. Bodies disappeared, graves were disturbed, instruments and notes multiplied beneath candlelight.

Eventually someone noticed, and before Francesca could destroy the evidence, or offer herself in confession, suspicion settled upon Amala’s brother, Dante, instead. House Moretti possessed enough wealth to soften every accusation directed toward its daughter, the poor bastard possessed nothing.

The Church, ever practical in its cruelty, gave her a choice: stand trial and drag one of Italy’s great houses down with her, or disappear into a marriage convenient enough to let the scandal die quietly along with her maiden name. She accepted the marriage, simply because fugitives require time to flee.

She escaped, Dante never did.

When Francesca returned one final time before abandoning Italy forever, grief had hollowed the woman she once knew until scarcely anything recognisable remained. No tears, only a curse spoken with terrible calm: one year to learn what every human heart ought to know without instruction.

She had spent her life mistaking affection for diversion. People entered gladly enough; she welcomed them warmly; and when they desired more than borrowed evenings and passing tenderness, she left without looking behind. 

She could open a man’s chest with immaculate precision; she had never learned how to remain beside someone after exposing her own.

The curse struck precisely where she possessed no armor—love as not the fever that consumed reason, but the quieter labour of placing another soul before one’s own without expecting pleasure, knowledge, or escape in return.

Fail before the year ended, and death would finish what loneliness had begun. Whether the words carried ancient magic or were merely the last cruelty of a broken-hearted woman, Francesca never discovered. Her reason insisted upon the latter, her sleepless nights believed the former. She told Niccolò everything before the salt of the Channel had even dried upon her boots.

Silence settled between them, comfortable as it had been since they were six. At last Niccolò leaned forward, resting his cheek upon one hand. “Ma tu vuoi bene alle persone,” But you do care about people.

Francesca mirrored him unconsciously. She always did, same birds they were. 

“Vuoi bene a me,” You care for me, he pondered. Nicco was a man who did not believe in curses but loved her enough to entertain one. Francesca smoked so she would not weep. “A Vincenzo. Hai pianto mia madre più sinceramente di metà dei suoi parenti.” For Vincenzo. You mourned my mother more honestly than half her own relatives.

“È diverso.” It’s different.

“Perché?” How?

“Perché siete la mia famiglia.” Because you’re my family.

She thought briefly of House Moretti. If every one of them vanished before sunrise, she doubted Heaven would receive so much as a single tear from her. Yet she still remembered Donna Anna’s funeral with painful clarity; the rain upon the cemetery stones, Niccolò standing rigid beside the grave, and herself weeping so violently she scarcely recognised the sound as her own.

“Credi davvero che diventare medico possa soddisfare… qualunque cosa sia questo patto?” Do you truly believe becoming a physician can satisfy… whatever bargain this is?

“Deve funzionare.” It has to work.

“I medici si dedicano agli estranei.” They devote themselves to strangers.

“E si fanno pagare profumatamente.” And they charge handsomely for it.

He laughed despite himself. “Sei impossibile.” You are impossible.

“Me l’hanno già detto.” I’ve been told as much.

Francesca smiled as he sighed. “Mi sto impegnando molto per prendere sul serio la tua imminente morte soprannaturale.” I am trying very hard to take your impending supernatural demise seriously.

“E apprezzo lo sforzo.” And I appreciate the effort.

“Bugiarda.” Liar.

“Un pochino.” A little.

He shook his head, she blew smoke his way merely because she could. “E come pensi di imparare questa miracolosa capacità di amare disinteressatamente?” And how exactly do you intend to learn this miraculous capacity for selfless love?

Francesca’s smile returned with dangerous brightness. “Tu mi aiuterai.” You shall assist.

“Lo davo per scontato.” I assumed as much.

“E anche un altro amico.” And another friend.

Niccolò blinked. “Francesca, tu hai due amici. Io sono uno dei due.” Francesca, you have two friends. I am one of them.

She rose in triumph, emptied her pipe into the hearth, and snatched his coat from the peg by the door. Time for an adventure! 

“Sbagliato.” Wrong.

“Fran—” 

“Ne ho tre.” I have three.

And Laurence, wherever he was tonight, had no notion of what was coming for him.

🀢🀣🀦🀤

When Francesca turned twenty, she seduced a priest, acquired two tattoos, and forged the documents that would admit her into the all-male medical university in Rome.

Not, admittedly, in that particular order.

It was also the year she met two people who would come to haunt the better chapters of her life: Laurence, and his wife, Elise.

She was the fourth of five children, and the only daughter, raised less by her mother than by the procession of nuns who trailed her through the house like grey shadows, murmuring their prayers, correcting her posture, her voice, the very way she breathed. Her mother had dreamed once of a veil and a vow of silence for her only girl, though that dream had curdled the day Francesca was found in the confession booth with her mouth between another girl’s thighs. There had been little hope, after that, of a bright future among the clergy.

Her childhood was a lonely thing. The family estate was magnificent, as only old fortunes know how to be. Endless galleries swallowed footsteps whole, chandeliers glittered above polished marble, velvet drapes smothered the sunlight until every room seemed caught forever in the hour before dusk. There were libraries she was forbidden to empty, gardens she was forbidden to wander alone, drawing rooms that had forgotten laughter long before she was born.

Francesca was no fool. She understood precisely what privilege had purchased for her. Wealth cushioned every hardship; power opened every locked door, save the ones that mattered most. Yet no amount of luxury could warm a house where affection was rationed. Whenever memory dragged her back through those corridors, it carried with it the peculiar melancholy of abandoned cathedrals: beautiful enough to inspire awe, empty enough to echo.

As a child, her brothers were her only companions. Andrea, Giuseppe and Pietro filled the halls with reckless joy, racing one another until servants cried out in protest, wrestling in the gardens, climbing trees with torn sleeves and bloodied knees. Francesca chased after them until she, too, was caught.

A lady does not run. A lady does not wrestle. A lady does not shout. A lady does not make a fool of herself.

How marvelous, then, to be a fool.

A jester may mock a king to his very face and walk from the hall unscathed, protected not by strength but by the absurdity granted him. Francesca wanted that. Wanted to be so unaccountable, so unbound by what she was supposed to be, that nothing could touch her.

She begged to study medicine. Once—only once—she fell to her knees before her mother, pleading with all the desperation youth mistakes for persuasion. She spoke of anatomy, of surgery, of knowledge hidden behind doors that opened only for men. She begged until her mother’s hand found her shoulder and pushed her back, told her to go to her room and not speak of it again. 

It was the last day Francesca ever looked at her with admiration.

Money could purchase silence. Time could produce convincing forgeries. A tailor’s shears, tightly bound linen, and clothes cut for narrower shoulders accomplished the rest. Her hair disappeared beneath a cap, her voice settled into measured reserve, and the world saw what it expected to see: not a woman, but an unusually delicate young man. She walked through the university gates a stranger to herself, and the men around her took her for nothing stranger than a soft-faced boy, pretty enough to be teased for it, never suspected for it.

Then she met Laurence. Quite naked, in fact.

There are few disguises capable of surviving a shared bath. Laurence discovered her secret with remarkable speed after that. It was, Francesca would later insist, a thoroughly inconvenient way to make a lifelong friend.

Her foot caught on a loose brick, and for one precarious heartbeat she teetered above the alley. The wind seized Nicco’s oversized coat, unfurling it behind her like the wings of some ungodly creature risen from the chimneys. The thought sent a grin creeping across her face.

Perhaps some sleepless soul would glance upward and mistake her for a monstrous bat, or better yet, a burglar!

She balanced her hip upon the windowsill, rapping once with a knuckle before trying the latch, more from habit than hope. It gave at once, sliding open without protest, and Francesca felt something like betrayal at how easily the night let her in. What virtue was there in a door that did not fight you?

“Laurence?” The name came out a scream dressed as a whisper, and she climbed through into the dark room as though she owned it. If the anatomy texts scattered like fallen leaves and the shadow she’d glimpsed from the garden wall were any proof, this was his lair and no other. “Laulau?”

Satisfied, Francesca claimed his desk chair as though she owned the house  wincing as its feet shrieked against the floorboards, a sound fit to wake the dead, or at least the whole of fashionable London. Brilliant, Fran. Do announce yourself to the entire street while you’re at it.

Undeterred, she tugged open a drawer and began nosing through his papers with shameless curiosity, holding each page to the candlelight as though she had every right to inspect a gentleman’s secrets.

She was halfway through deciphering an indecipherable diagram of muscles and Latin when a familiar figure darkened the doorway.

“Laurence!” The papers scattered as she launched herself across the room. She collided with him with enough enthusiasm to send them both staggering backward, laughter bubbling from her lips as she wrapped her arms around him. “I’ve missed you terribly! How is Elise? And dear Vivi? It’s been an age!”

She finally leaned back just enough to inspect his face, narrowing her eyes with exaggerated suspicion.

“…And why do you look as though you’ve just seen a ghost?”

After she finally fell asleep (only after reading her three different stories), he was able to return to his room and work on his ledgers and some leftover paperwork. Sometimes these nights were the worst.

He'd wake up to hear his daughter crying in her room from nightmares, or perhaps he'd be reliving old memories of his own. It became harder to sleep some nights because the windows were open and the heat coming in. He'd wait and worry about Vivi instead of sleeping.

He tapped his fingers on the pages of his notebook, looking up every now and then when he thought he'd heard something, if he'd hear his daughter calling for him.

He looked over his shoulder. That was the second time already that he had heard the noise. Laurence scratched his shoulder, and stared at the window.

Then the candle next to him went dark. Perfect.

He left to light it again, taking that extra moment to check on Vivi, who was thankfully, still asleep. She didn't need to worry about his insomnia. The little furry creature she kept as a pet was in the corner, like a sleeping sphinx ready to hiss at him if he stepped on the wrong spot on the floor.

After finding the oil to light the candle again, he moved back to the bedroom, hearing another sound. And there went his part of his light again. Managing to salvage a bit of what was left of what was in his hand, he looked at the new figure at the window.

He squinted, watching the figure move. And speak.

It was only when he heard his name did he nearly jump back and drop the candle. There was only one person in the world he knew that still used that pet name--that even remembered that name.

"Oh, cazzo, Fran," he swore. Her name hadn't left his lips since they had been young together in the last year of their studies. That was when the letters from Elise became more frequent.

"Francesca," he said, composing himself again as he watched his old friend. Returning the affection, he gave her a squeeze of the shoulder. "Did my letters not return to you in time?" Laurence asked. He shook his head, pulling out the locket that had once belonged to Elise. "Her fever never broke. Vivi was spared and recovered quickly." The guilt still weighed heavily on him.

"She is nearly grown now," he smiled quietly, before letting out a broken laugh. "Because one does not climb into a house on a regular evening. Or have you forgotten such manners already?" he teased her lightly this time.

He took another look at her, raising a brow. "You could have written," he lowered his voice, turning slightly to make sure he didn't hear tiny footsteps trying to go down the hallway.

"She occasionally asks about you, Fran. She's seen your drawings in my old notebooks and finds them absolutely fascinating. I must be cursed to be surrounded by such brilliant women who are much wiser and wittier than I."

Jonathan Bailey as Anthony Bridgerton in “An Unthinkable Fate” (Bridgerton - 2x05)

A shout came from behind him, followed by hurried footsteps. Edgar glanced toward the alley's mouth, then back at Arthur with a bright, shameless smile. "I don't suppose you're in the mood to pardon an Irishman and his deeply misunderstood companion?" The bird flapped violently. "Temporary companion," Edgar corrected.

A constable appeared, breathless, then stopped short at the sight of Arthur. Edgar seized the opportunity at once. "His Majesty is walking with the prince. You'll frighten the child," he said, as if he had arranged the whole thing. Of all the people in London to nearly hand a stolen goose to, the King of England was rather inconvenient. His gaze flicked from Arthur to the child in his arms, then down to the furious bird tucked beneath Edgar's own.

He made a note to keep an eye on them all. But part of him felt a little empathy still. As soon as the guards came running and scrambling for the bird, Arthur held up his hand to give them pause. They looked a little shocked, and he nodded, agreeing with Edgar. "Solomon is just enjoying his walk outside, no need for alarm," he said. "Please,"

And if he was being fully honest, he was not so much in the mood to settle anymore conflict for the day. "We were just having some fun. In jest. I assure you, if anything would happen right under my nose, I would be greatly aware," he looked at his men, who looked at each other and then suspiciously at Edgar again. "I invited Mister O'Connor today. Did you not receive notice this morning? Back to training then," he said dismissively.

"my apologies for halting your entrance, miss barnett." one of the barnett daughter's she had read about, she was sure she had heard many mention the names of the daughter's at the ball, but leonora was unsure of which she was. "i am fine," she was not, "i do hope i haven't caused you any distress."

Looking at Leonora again curiously, Harriett leaned her head to the side. "Are you well? Should we have a seat and just have a chat? Or stay quiet? I've been told I tend to ramble on too much," she smiled softly.

“For what? Something you lost? I don’t think you’ve been here before but if you’re here on behalf for someone else I can-” it was rude to interrupt him before he’d finished but she was rushed and did want to aid as best as she could. Quickly, she departs and returns with a glass of water and places it in front of the stranger. “I think I saw someone like that at the back of my shop. A little girl making animal noises? I thought the heat had gotten to her mind!”

"Shall we?" he asked, gesturing to the direction of the backroom, hearing a high pitched giggle. "I believe that would be her," he said, glancing over at Kaira before moving towards the door slowly. He pressed a finger on his lips, seeing the purple dress that Vivi was wearing sticking out from behind one of the boxes. “Principessa, mi amore?”

There was much conflict surrounding the royal family at this time. She still wanted to be friends with Sophia, obviously. And she would still be friendly towards the royal family, of course. But that wouldn't stop her from poking around a little, as she liked to do.

"Your Majesty!" Kitty smiled when Arthur spoke to her. She stood up and gave a gentle curtsy. "Very agreeable indeed. I must say, I am very happy to see you out today." Katherine looked around a little before leaning in slightly and lowering her voice. "Lady Whistledown is monstrous. I am very sorry she has come after you and your family!" She frowned and shook her head with a regretful sigh. "And the Queen's guard! I mean, goodness, it is as if someone is targeting the throne specifically." Her head tilted a little, her eyebrows furrowed with worry that was entirely fabricated. Well, perhaps not entirely. It wasn't good what Whistledown said about everyone, but she was not exactly worried for the sake of the royals. "I do hope everyone is well."

open starter for anyone in THETONHQ! // THE BARTHOLOMEW FAIR

He had studied many of the features on display because of the books they looked over in medical school. There were plenty of specimens that he could not erase from his mind. He just had to sigh and keep on looking through the crowd. "Vivi, lo giuro su Dio," he cursed under his breath, trying to find her.

Of course. Cats.

He slowed in his steps, seeing the large cat. Now that was something magnificent, as if it knew it owned the space it was kept in. He frowned slightly, only at the thought of whatever the animal was thinking, being gaped upon by onlookers. Students mixed in too, he presumed, who were also looking at the body of the creature.

He suddenly spotted her, too intrigued in awe to pay him any mind. He heard a voice, that of the princess—he recognized her from the Barnett house ball. He had to admit, the large cat was beautiful. “Indeed,” he said in a quiet voice. “I’ve never seen anything like it. A hunter, perhaps and a speedy one at that.”