#tnc starter

to dear Mariana--

I have enclosed for Sophie a little money please tell her this is for my part of Eliza's wedding gift there were no spoons in Calcutta and God in Heaven only knows what our sister would use a monkey for. Would a stein for her parlor table be acceptable or useful? I do not know what married women put on parlor tables anymore. (Does she have a parlor now? or just a best room?)

Now that I have settled that matter sufficintly I insist that you sever your connection with Matthews as I am more than ever convinced of his dubious character (which cannot lead to your happiness) particularly a man to whom you intimate will propose to you (or worse will never propose to you because you are forever divided by a chasm of hopeless impossibility which I remark that it is to blame solely on the fact that he is a poet and an artist who has decided not to make any use of himself! of all things to set your cap on Mariana!!) 

Harry Kirkwood grunted. He was alone in the tent, sitting and smoking on the bleachers, scribbling out a few lines before night fell and his work began. His opinion on his sister's new beau had become passionate, and now he could not find the end of the point he'd been making. He stuck a hand under his cap to scratch his scalp, possibly to stimulate his brain into making a little more coherent sense. He did not need to see Matthews (or Mayhew, he could not remember and would not do the man the courtesy of getting his name right on purpose) or talk to him, or anything at all but read (and interpret) his sister's disturbing account of the man's behavior. He drummed the butt of his pen against the edge of the book he was using as a writing desk. 

There is a class of people, Mariana, who do not consider the fealings of any body but their own sordid worldly selves and cannot provide the sort of lasting affection you wish for because they aren't capable of it. Assuming he means to marry you. What you will find him doubtlessly capable of is crossing that chasm, not to marry you but

  Harry hastily crossed out that last, carefully obscuring every evidence. It had taken a turn that neither Mariana nor Sophie (or the younger ones, who would probably hear portions of his letter) would appreciate. Mary Ann Kirkwood was almost twenty-five, but still as innocent as a maid (her own words.) Her consistent association with horrible, 'redeemable' men proved this, at least, to him. 

Lucian's head was spinning; the tension between the different circuses was palpable, and seemed to fill the air no matter where he went. He tried to think of somewhere peaceful to go clear his head, knowing that his tent was simply not an option. The nightmares were becoming worse, and it was this that prompted an idea; Father O'Dorchaidhe kept volumes of maps and books on religious sites, many of which were in Italy. Now, Lucian knew Italy was a bit too far, but he remembered a cathedral that was located on the outskirts of Palermo, within walking distance of where the circus was currently stationed.

A church was exactly where Lucian needed to go; he hadn't visited one in quite some time. The more he thought about it, the more he realised that London was the last time he was in any sort of church, and what happened while he was there- an involuntary shudder crossed his shoulders.

Giving a short whistle, Lucian called Ciara by his side, instantly feeling better as her tail brushed his legs. The extent to which he relied on the little black fox was admittedly unhealthy, the moments she was away from him filled with anxiety. Ever since she'd come into his life, Lucian had started to progress, he could hold conversation with minimal eye contact, he didn't completely shy away from interaction, she made him better.

Ciara too had been living a better life since knowing Lucian; she no longer went hungry, her spastic movements were now much smoother. Her family was killed by trappers when she was a pup, leaving her to fend for herself in a world where young foxes rarely survived. In some sort of strange dynamic, Lucian had become a father-figure, and she learned from observing other humans what made him different, unhappy. The bond between the two was far different than the bonds between Lucian and any of his other animals. In a way, she was almost human.

Charlotte had thought that she had seen everything when she had gone to the market in Bangkok. She could still remember the exotic fruits piled high, each seemingly more precious to her than any jewels and the taste of the fruits bursting on her tongue. The heat in Calcutta was comparable to the Thai country - she had still left off extra layers of petticoats and gone without her corset not wanting to chance fainting in the heat (an acrobat had done so earlier passing out in the middle of a crowded market wasn’t on the young woman’s list of things to do). The locals were just as kind and understood more English than those in Bangkok because of the English colonization, but she had not expected the sheer joy she would experience upon seeing what the Calcutta stalls had to offer. For that she couldn’t help but silently apologize.

Silks and fabrics, dyes and threads, bubbling pots of curry and cakes, fruits and vegetables all rose up around her and she stood, shocked at the entrance way to the market almost overwhelmed by it all. Miles of roads and intricate stalls stretched as far as the eye could see and there was a longing in her body to see it all. People swarmed by her, most not casting a curious glance at the young girl and her wide brimmed sun hat. After a brief moment, a wide smile broke across her face, eyes glittering as she all but threw herself into the throng, her loosely pleated hair coming loose as her wicker basket swung happily on her arm.

It was by this third destination that she had decided she was going to learn as many local dishes as she could wherever the circus went. Her nose would have carried her straight to the food hawker stalls and stands, but she halted, her eyes going wide like saucers. Spices. Burlap sacks bigger than her arm span piled high with spices of all kinds towered above her and childlike laughter left her mouth. Some may have said that buying spices before learning the dishes was her getting ahead of herself, but to Charlotte it was simply a part of the fun. It was a part of the adventure and she was quickly adopting the idea that life was nothing without adventure.

She flitted from sack to sack, the stall owner coming to help her after a moment and noticing how her basket was still surprisingly empty. Her bright smile and enthusiasm was infectious and he gave her small samples even though she fully intended to come back later on. He taught her the names of the spices - cinnamon, cardamom, saffron, asam, nutmeg, turmeric, mustard seeds - and she was already forming soon to be learned recipes in her head. With a basket filled with small bags of spices, Charlotte set out of the small spice cave, basket swinging - only to bump right into a moving body. Spice bags spilled onto the floor and she let out a startled cry as she both moved to help the person up and collect her fallen treasures.