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I thought perhaps I should write something just to let you know I am not wasting away into 'catatonia'. I'm fine. The arm is fully functional again, too, rendering the whole episode completely useless. I apologise for having put you to such unnecessary trouble last week.
I'm sorry to ask, but Apparating seems unwise today. If you could open your Floo at the appointed hour, I would take it as a great kindness.
In fact. if you're not otherwise engaged, do you suppose I could come by a bit earlier? I could use the company and a place to retreat to.
In fact. if you're not otherwise engaged, do you suppose I could come by a bit earlier? I could use the company and a place to retreat to.
(no subject)
Apr. 22nd, 2010 09:31 pmIt's dark as pitch
behind you, the bright one
there, low in the south, with the Lyrids shooting
like hexes towards you, past you
there: one
another
behind you, the bright one
there, low in the south, with the Lyrids shooting
like hexes towards you, past you
there: one
another
I've only just got here, and I'm being called back. Nymphadora is napping at the moment, I'm informed, so I'm not able to speak with her. They tell me that she ate breakfast, though without great enthusiasm, that her urine is normal, and her other vital signs are within the ranges they expect at this point in her recovery.
I gather she's to have some sort of therapy this afternoon, and I suspect that's the part you were hoping I could look in on?
I'm sorry I can't stay or do more.
I gather she's to have some sort of therapy this afternoon, and I suspect that's the part you were hoping I could look in on?
I'm sorry I can't stay or do more.
(no subject)
Apr. 4th, 2010 09:57 pmIf I know one thing, I know this.
The dead cannot pass for living.
The dead cannot pass for living.
Dyou r EMbr whe n
Yu
ust to tell
stoRIeses?
didtoo
did
did did did did did DID
phwuh
Yu
ust to tell
stoRIeses?
didtoo
did
did did did did did DID
phwuh
(no subject)
Mar. 12th, 2010 10:18 pmThey go cold and pale so fast. Much faster than with other methods, a quarter of an hour at most. Of course, it's not as though they have a normal temperature to begin with. And the skin goes limp, collapses and hangs loose. The purpling begins in the first hour, though it varies.Am keeping strict notes on each case.
What's worrying is the eyes, with nothing to protect them.
So many eyes.
What's worrying is the eyes, with nothing to protect them.
So many eyes.
(no subject)
Jan. 23rd, 2010 12:07 amWhen I was small, there was a story I wanted to hear every night. It told of a boy whose father, having been challenged by an evil adversary, rode out on the morning of his duel, never to return. It fell then to the boy and his mother to hold the family and their estate together. The boy was young but ever so brave, and like his father, he never wavered even in adversity.
I wanted to be that boy.
I looked for you tonight. It's clear and cold here, with only a sliver of Moon--and that all but set. It's as dark as can be, so you're easy to spot away there in the south. So bright. Scorching. Searingly, blindingly bright.
I wanted to be that boy.
I looked for you tonight. It's clear and cold here, with only a sliver of Moon--and that all but set. It's as dark as can be, so you're easy to spot away there in the south. So bright. Scorching. Searingly, blindingly bright.
Have you heard anything either from the solicitor or from St Mungo's? Mother is of the wild opinion that they mean to classify the death as the first pureblood case of this muggle scourge or whatever it is they've determined to call the infernal thing.
I've done my best to reassure her, but as you know, my word has little currency these days. And then there's the likelihood that I may be called at any moment either to Buckingham or elsewhere. I expect to be kept on a very short lead until Our Lord's business has been resolved to His satisfaction. As you know, He is currently far from satisfied.
All of which is likely to leave Mother less than satisfied, and I'm afraid the brunt of that will fall on you and Druella. I wish I could see an alternative.
I've done my best to reassure her, but as you know, my word has little currency these days. And then there's the likelihood that I may be called at any moment either to Buckingham or elsewhere. I expect to be kept on a very short lead until Our Lord's business has been resolved to His satisfaction. As you know, He is currently far from satisfied.
All of which is likely to leave Mother less than satisfied, and I'm afraid the brunt of that will fall on you and Druella. I wish I could see an alternative.
Cousin, I couldn't help but notice that you've just expanded your plans for your holiday entertaining. I wonder if you could use help with any of the preparations. I seem to be less in demand at the moment, so I'd be glad if there were something I could do for you.
I had a bit of a surprise yesterday. I stopped into one of the little shops down my street for sticking plasters and several other things, and while they couldn't supply the plasters--can you imagine: they stock wound cream but not plasters and then were out of washing up liquid?--Sorry. The point is, who should be there behind the counter but our cousin Nymphadora? Says she took the job to supplement what she's earning at the Ministry. I hadn't realised she was working there, either, though I guess I wouldn't have done. If I hadn't just seen her at the funeral, I doubt I'd have recognised her at all; before we were all together that day it had been ages since I'd laid eyes on her.
She's just as I remember, though: well, I can't say whether the hair was purple back then (and, obviously it wasn't at the funeral), but it was always one sort of odd or another, and there's always been that same inability to pick up one thing without knocking something else over. Merlin's tiny pants, that girl was always hopelessly clumsy, wasn't she? Well she's just as awkward now. Fortunately, it was the tin of biscuits and not the bottle of lamp oil that she knocked off the counter and then stepped on. I thought she was going to overturn a whole table of fruitcakes when she bent to pick it up.
I wonder how long she'll keep the job, honestly. I'd think she might break more than she sells. On the other hand, she did persuade me to buy a quantity of cinnamon and several other things that were nowhere on my list. She plied me with spiced cider and a sample tray of cinnamon biscuits that tasted just like the ones Kreacher made when we were children.
I asked her about that, why even when you can get the ingredients, nothing tastes as good now as then, and do you know what she told me? She says you can't buy proper cinnamon these days. I had no idea! Says it's not really cinnamon at all that they're selling in the shops, but cassia, instead. I suppose it's to do with import restrictions and pricing issues, but the point of it all is that her shop's got the goods. They've got a supplier for true cinnamon--the packet says it's from Sri Lanka--and they've got marvellous-smelling, fresh cloves and nutmeg and candied ginger. And now I have, as well.
I couldn't wait for Fifi to come round on Monday, so I summoned Kreacher last night and set him to baking. My flat smells a treat, I can tell you!
I suppose that was entirely more than you wanted to know, wasn't it, cousin?
Clearly, I need something more to occupy myself with than writing things in this book. Do, please, tell me you have some task I could do for you. Or at least agree to have tea with me some afternoon this week. Otherwise I may go mad and begin putting up fairy lights and pine boughs and baking mince pies. It won't be pretty, I can assure you.
I had a bit of a surprise yesterday. I stopped into one of the little shops down my street for sticking plasters and several other things, and while they couldn't supply the plasters--can you imagine: they stock wound cream but not plasters and then were out of washing up liquid?--Sorry. The point is, who should be there behind the counter but our cousin Nymphadora? Says she took the job to supplement what she's earning at the Ministry. I hadn't realised she was working there, either, though I guess I wouldn't have done. If I hadn't just seen her at the funeral, I doubt I'd have recognised her at all; before we were all together that day it had been ages since I'd laid eyes on her.
She's just as I remember, though: well, I can't say whether the hair was purple back then (and, obviously it wasn't at the funeral), but it was always one sort of odd or another, and there's always been that same inability to pick up one thing without knocking something else over. Merlin's tiny pants, that girl was always hopelessly clumsy, wasn't she? Well she's just as awkward now. Fortunately, it was the tin of biscuits and not the bottle of lamp oil that she knocked off the counter and then stepped on. I thought she was going to overturn a whole table of fruitcakes when she bent to pick it up.
I wonder how long she'll keep the job, honestly. I'd think she might break more than she sells. On the other hand, she did persuade me to buy a quantity of cinnamon and several other things that were nowhere on my list. She plied me with spiced cider and a sample tray of cinnamon biscuits that tasted just like the ones Kreacher made when we were children.
I asked her about that, why even when you can get the ingredients, nothing tastes as good now as then, and do you know what she told me? She says you can't buy proper cinnamon these days. I had no idea! Says it's not really cinnamon at all that they're selling in the shops, but cassia, instead. I suppose it's to do with import restrictions and pricing issues, but the point of it all is that her shop's got the goods. They've got a supplier for true cinnamon--the packet says it's from Sri Lanka--and they've got marvellous-smelling, fresh cloves and nutmeg and candied ginger. And now I have, as well.
I couldn't wait for Fifi to come round on Monday, so I summoned Kreacher last night and set him to baking. My flat smells a treat, I can tell you!
I suppose that was entirely more than you wanted to know, wasn't it, cousin?
Clearly, I need something more to occupy myself with than writing things in this book. Do, please, tell me you have some task I could do for you. Or at least agree to have tea with me some afternoon this week. Otherwise I may go mad and begin putting up fairy lights and pine boughs and baking mince pies. It won't be pretty, I can assure you.
(no subject)
Nov. 22nd, 2009 11:40 pmA quiet evening at home is a lovely, decadent thing. Especially such a rainy one when inside it's snug and warm.
I've been working all week at sorting through the boxes from Aunt Prewett's, but I'm nearly finished. I've set the armour to stand guard beside my breakfast table lest anyone steal my toast of a morning.
Now I think of it, most of the items were actually Uncle's--a rather wicked-looking poignard, for instance, and a silver shaving set. (I've been pondering what might happen if its charms have gone wonky at all.) Best of all, there are a great load of books. Inspired Strategies of Death-dealing Duellists by Esme Meretriste seems the most entertaining of them, but there are some real gems in the lot--ancient, obscure, idiosyncratic and utterly ingenious books of history and spellcraft and theory. There's a bit of philosophy in the mix, a medieval navigational manual, and a set of Senecan tragedies with very fine bindings.
One of the boxes contained an interesting assortment of oddments that must have been left at the end of the divvying up:
I believe I'll take Salazar's Sapience to bed with me; it's a page-turner so far.
I've been working all week at sorting through the boxes from Aunt Prewett's, but I'm nearly finished. I've set the armour to stand guard beside my breakfast table lest anyone steal my toast of a morning.
Now I think of it, most of the items were actually Uncle's--a rather wicked-looking poignard, for instance, and a silver shaving set. (I've been pondering what might happen if its charms have gone wonky at all.) Best of all, there are a great load of books. Inspired Strategies of Death-dealing Duellists by Esme Meretriste seems the most entertaining of them, but there are some real gems in the lot--ancient, obscure, idiosyncratic and utterly ingenious books of history and spellcraft and theory. There's a bit of philosophy in the mix, a medieval navigational manual, and a set of Senecan tragedies with very fine bindings.
One of the boxes contained an interesting assortment of oddments that must have been left at the end of the divvying up:
- item, one ball self-tying twine;
item, one murderous thimble that jabs poison into the wearer's finger;
item, one well-worn pack playing cards missing three of its four jacks;
item, one fruit bowl, unwashed;
item, one flask doxy venom;
item, one absinthe spoon inscribed 'Hotel Churn, Cirencester';
item, one long shoe lace (unless it's really a garrote);
item, one chipped desktop espial globe;
item, one bone or ivory cigarette holder etched with ivy design;
item, one lady's hat, chartreuse with peacock tail.
I believe I'll take Salazar's Sapience to bed with me; it's a page-turner so far.
done to death
Nov. 15th, 2009 01:48 amI can't sleep. I can't scrub myself clean enough even to sit in my own flat, so I've been walking for hours. The locals are all closed now; I can't even hide in the depths of another glass of fire-whiskey in a smoky corner. I'm writing beneath a street lamp, but the page is swimming.
I didn't want to do that! None of it.
I don't want to have done it.
And I can't undo it now. Any of it.
If I could
Even if I could reach all the way back to when it was not yet done. When was that? A dozen years? More.
You knew what you were about when you limited my wand to block any self-harming spell. You know I won't top myself like a Muggle. Of course not. As though I'd care at all the moment it was done, but I'm too proud to be found like that. Too much a Black. Too much a wizard. Too much yours to do it at all.
But I want it. Oblivion. Pitch blackness. Rest.
I can see her. Jaw wrenched open and aside. Eyes wide, locked on mine. And I can hear her.
She begged me.
And I was stone. Like you.
'It makes it worse, begging,' I said. 'You save a shred of dignity if you can keep from doing that.' It's all shreds and tatters in the end, regardless.
I couldn't stand it. I can't.
I won't. Though that's ridiculous, because, of course, I did. Did it, hating it, cursing it, myself, him, you, her, all. Why do we do this? What do you want that I haven't given, proven, purged? What else?
I wish you wouldn't answer that, but you will. Whether I asked or not. The answer is coming. Worse if you are displeased, but no easier, really, if you found it praiseworthy. Each is worse, more impossible, more
There aren't words for this. But you'll know it whether I write or don't write, and the thoughts are clearer, I know. But the words are mine, for myself, to make it real. Finished.
It won't ever be finished.
I didn't want to do that! None of it.
I don't want to have done it.
And I can't undo it now. Any of it.
If I could
Even if I could reach all the way back to when it was not yet done. When was that? A dozen years? More.
You knew what you were about when you limited my wand to block any self-harming spell. You know I won't top myself like a Muggle. Of course not. As though I'd care at all the moment it was done, but I'm too proud to be found like that. Too much a Black. Too much a wizard. Too much yours to do it at all.
But I want it. Oblivion. Pitch blackness. Rest.
I can see her. Jaw wrenched open and aside. Eyes wide, locked on mine. And I can hear her.
She begged me.
And I was stone. Like you.
'It makes it worse, begging,' I said. 'You save a shred of dignity if you can keep from doing that.' It's all shreds and tatters in the end, regardless.
I couldn't stand it. I can't.
I won't. Though that's ridiculous, because, of course, I did. Did it, hating it, cursing it, myself, him, you, her, all. Why do we do this? What do you want that I haven't given, proven, purged? What else?
I wish you wouldn't answer that, but you will. Whether I asked or not. The answer is coming. Worse if you are displeased, but no easier, really, if you found it praiseworthy. Each is worse, more impossible, more
There aren't words for this. But you'll know it whether I write or don't write, and the thoughts are clearer, I know. But the words are mine, for myself, to make it real. Finished.
It won't ever be finished.
(no subject)
Nov. 6th, 2009 11:52 amYes. I see that I shouldn't make plans as though my schedule were my own.
But Skye, Marlowe Sands, Ely, Telford, Luton and Basildon--all today? Fortunate that I never feel much like eating after I've Apparated. Once.
At any rate, the first two are done, and I'm in Ely somewhere. Damned if I can find anyone to ask directions from, though. Place looks utterly deserted. Not much reclamation here, I take it.
Were you not pleased with your birthday present, then? I had thought it met all of your specifications. Was it the timing, perhaps? You'd have preferred I wait? I'm afraid I wasn't in control of that. Was it the packaging? Too gaudy? You do realise that I can't do better if I don't know how I've failed.
Right. No time for moaning in this itinerary.
Or, actually, there may be. Still too dizzy to walk.
There's not a train to Telford, is there?
I didn't think so.
But Skye, Marlowe Sands, Ely, Telford, Luton and Basildon--all today? Fortunate that I never feel much like eating after I've Apparated. Once.
At any rate, the first two are done, and I'm in Ely somewhere. Damned if I can find anyone to ask directions from, though. Place looks utterly deserted. Not much reclamation here, I take it.
Were you not pleased with your birthday present, then? I had thought it met all of your specifications. Was it the timing, perhaps? You'd have preferred I wait? I'm afraid I wasn't in control of that. Was it the packaging? Too gaudy? You do realise that I can't do better if I don't know how I've failed.
Right. No time for moaning in this itinerary.
Or, actually, there may be. Still too dizzy to walk.
There's not a train to Telford, is there?
I didn't think so.
