I was exactly in the mood for this. Cynical fairies and curses from the gods and a family in shambles. The romance is there, and quite lovely, but it’s off to one side, and that suits my mood too. The Caesar sisters and the Irregulars of the militia take up space on page, which makes me happy. In the throes of re-reading Jane Austen, I want that communal voice, that cacophony of perspectives filtered through our wry and caustic narrator. The precarious ending suits me too, lovely in its way of sincere commitment but also real-life uncertainty. And my kingdom for Miss Bickle, forever and always the best.
Postscript: Speaking of Miss Bickle, here’s the list of averections (avid reader fictions, natch) recited at her avidreadermeet for the avidreaderdom devoted to the wider anonymousladyauthorverse for the anonymous lady author of Sense and Sensibility, all of which I would read:
- The Other Bennet Girl (Kitty/Caroline, Kitty/Charlotte, Kitty/Original Lady Character, cordial acquaintances to intimate relations, antagonistic acquaintances to intimate relations)
- Fanny Price Investigates, an ongoing series featuring Fanny Price, Lady Investigator (OOC)
- The Unbelievably Secret Diaries of Georgiana Darcy
- The Heir and the Wastrel (WIP, Wickham/Darcy, pre-canon, rated E (E for Explicit, not E for Everyone, natch))
Postscript the second: After recent histrom offenses regarding firearms, you better believe I enjoyed the realistic loading and priming of a pistol, and the notoriously inaccurate black powder weaponry.
Pull quotes ⚭
There had followed a short debriefing in which both parties had apprised one another on the flavour of fuckedness that had descended upon them, and they had then, mutually, attempted to game through the ways in which those fuckednesses intersected and exacerbated one another.
“What shall I do for money if I cannot find a suitable husband?” Miss Caesar continued, demonstrating a persistent failure to—if you will forgive the anachronistic phrasing—read the room.
“Scrub floors?” suggested Callaghan.
“Take in laundry?” offered the captain.
“On Saturdays,” Sal said, “there’s Jewish folk need errands run. On account of the Sabbath.”
“You’re a well-brought-up lady,” the captain tried again, “you could probably be a schoolmistress.”
“Or,” said Jackson, half-melted into the shadow of the doorway, “you could just sell your body.”
Outraged as only a young woman infused with fairy majesty can be outraged, Miss Caesar glowered. “I would never.”
Shielded from the worst of the Lady’s magic by cynicism and disinterest, Jackson raised an eyebrow. “Really? It doesn’t sound that different from your first plan to me.”
“More risk of the clap?” Sal observed.
“Depends on the duke.”
Reality is a jewel of which you mortals see only facets.
Miss Anne replied, “I can imagine worse fates.”
I understand litotes, reader, I truly do, but to one of my kind, I can think of worse fates is seldom anything but a threat. We can, after all, think of so very many fates and they are most of them terrible beyond your comprehension.
Readers, you know that I love chaos. And what happened next I loved a great deal.
Of all the Hellenes, I have always had a quiet respect for Artemis. Insult most gods and they will spin elaborate schemes of vengeance involving falling in love with your own reflection or being transformed into a spider or having your whole city burned down by men hiding inside a big wooden mammal. But sweet Artemis will usually just fucking kill you.