#I still need a new surname for him and Vera | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

wardencommanderrodimiss · 5 years

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Chapter 20: I can’t come up with a clever summary for this one that doesn’t ruin the surprise of the nonsense I’ve set loose, I’m sorry, I’m tired

[Beginning] [Chapter Masterlist] [ao3]

Trucy has Christmas off from school – or maybe just takes it off, Apollo doesn’t ask these questions – but it is a weekday and the office is open, so Apollo spends it with her and Vera and Phoenix nowhere to be seen. “We would make a great investigation trio,” Trucy says, adjusting the Santa hat that she has moved from her head to Charley now to her wisp so that it, invisible beneath the hat, bobs about the office as some kind of strange holiday decor. “But I also hope no one comes in today, because – spending Christmas in jail because you’re accused of murder. Can you imagine?”

“Or being murdered on Christmas,” Apollo agrees.

Having said that, he still does like to get paid.

It’s cold, fae cold, like every Christmas Apollo has experienced in Los Angeles. (Like every Christmas Apollo has experienced; they didn’t celebrate it in Khura’in. They had their own holidays, things all dimmed down in his memories.) The dusting of snow across the sidewalk melts by afternoon between the bright sun and the foot traffic through the city, but the chill remains, making Apollo infinitely grateful for his Christmas presents from Trucy, a knitted beanie and scarf, even if the colors she chose for him are pink and limey green.

“I know you won’t really get cold,” Trucy had said to Vera, “but everyone should have cute scarves and hats, so you get one, too!” The knitwear she presented to Vera was pink and bright blue, colors that much better match her typical fashion – and her fae form, when she lets her glamour drop to hold the yarn against her skin. Trucy insists on a selfie with the three of them; right before she clicks the button, Vera washes away her watercolor skin, and grinning back from the photo are three apparent humans.

“Maybe shouldn’t have photo evidence that I’m not human,” Vera says quietly, but she is already reaching for her sketchpad and scribbling a tiny self-portrait, fae ears and all, in the corner of a page. She still takes a sketchbook everywhere with her but doesn’t keep it in hand at every moment, seeming a little more able and willing to express herself with words and either of her own faces.

Trucy tells them that she has also made Ema a scarf so that she can contribute to the scientific assessment that Trucy expects of Iris’ yarn. “Daddy says that humans who spend a long time in the fae world end up with kinds of glamours, too,” she explains to Vera, after catching her up on Iris. Apollo wonders who Phoenix learned this from; if he knew that, shouldn’t he have figured out what Klavier was sooner? Or is this another fact he’s only put together after that one realization? “So we’re all wondering what properties these might have. I expect you to take notes on anything strange while you’re wearing these. Like if people start telling you you’re more attractive.”

Apollo snorts. Trucy smacks him on the arm. “This is for science, Apollo!”

“How much do you talk to Ema, again?” He can’t say that he isn’t curious – could something like this be the origin of the infamous Magic Panties? – and he can’t say that he isn’t more curious than afraid nowadays, but he also can’t say that he’s not afraid of where this curiosity will take them. Everything Clay impressed upon him for thirteen years has collapsed in eight months.

(And Dhurke – well, maybe there was a nugget or two of advice Dhurke left him, half-forgotten, but he let Apollo and Nahyuta make their mistakes, and as far as that goes, Apollo is definitely making mistakes.)

Trucy is powerful, he’ll give her that. And if anyone can turn stage magic into entertainment in a city so full and wary of real magic, it would be her. (That seems to be her latest career aspiration, the latest turn of her Youtube channel after her stint as a cover artist, but she laments that it’s hard to really perform when she knows her audience could easily believe she’s just cleverly editing her videos.)

(If he really thinks about it, he wonders if she, like Klavier, has some innate glamour, if at least some part of her force of personality and charisma and likeability is magic.)

“I have two more very important things to tell you,” she says over a late lunch of Chinese, because Eldoon’s isn’t an option with Vera and he apparently takes some holidays off anyway.

“Uh-oh,” Apollo says.

The lights blink between two stages of brightness; Apollo still can’t really say he’s used to Mia’s rare laughter. “Excuse you!” Trucy says. “I object! I am having a New Years Eve party here and was going to tell you to come and invite your friends but now you are uninvited! Polly is, anyway. Vera you’re still good.”

“You can’t blame me!” Apollo says. “The amount of strange things that happen with Mr Wright, I never know if you’re just gonna tell me that he’s – I don’t know, got summoned back to the Twilight Realm for a stint and you need to crash on my couch – or whatever.”

“Oh, Daddy’s just over at Uncle Miles’ office today,” Trucy says. “Probably not actually doing work.”

“Uncle Miles?” Vera asks the question that Apollo was about to.

“Oh – Mr Prosecutor Edgeworth. Polly, you met him, right?”

“Prosecutor Edgeworth? I – yeah.” So he and Phoenix are close, close enough that Trucy calls him family. That’s probably important to know, another piece to Phoenix’s wide and varied social circle. “Well uh, I guess it’s good that he hasn’t been disappeared by the fae or something.”

“Oh, we’d be warned if something happened,” Trucy says. The cryptic vagueness of that statement seems fitting somehow. “There’s no need to worry!”

Apollo wouldn’t say he was worried; rather more of a neutral expectation he has that Phoenix is someday going to flake in some grander way than he did setting up the Jurist System.

“Anyway, New Years,” she continues. “I’m inviting a friend from school, and Ema, and a couple other people she and I know, and you can invite Clay if you want, and I need your phone for Prosecutor Gavin’s number to invite him.” She extends her hand, palm facing upward, to him.

“Erm,” Apollo says.

“Or you can invite him yourself,” Trucy says. She draws her hand back. “Do you think he’ll be more likely to say yeah to you or me? I mean, I’m cute but you already talk to him on the regular, so it could go either way.” She claps her hands together. “Okay, we’re decided: you invite him on my behalf!”

Apollo wouldn’t say that they actually decided it so much as Trucy decreed it, but sure, he’ll go with it. “I thought you and Ema didn’t know each other at all when we first met her,” he says. The tragicomedy of the white powder ordeal is still, and always will be, fresh in his mind when he thinks about Ema. “How do you have mutual friends?”

“Oh, y’know.” Trucy shrugs. Apollo does not know. “She knew Daddy and Uncle Miles back when, Uncle Miles knows other people who I know, then she meets them, then we meet – the usual. Everyone ends up working in the legal system.” She pauses. “Except me.”

“I think you count,” Vera says.

“You’re co-counsel,” Apollo says. “You definitely count.”

“I guess you’re right,” Trucy says. “Magic just keeps ending up hand-in-hand with the law.” She sits forward conspiratorial, steepling her fingers in front of her face. “Now,” she adds, unable to stop herself from grinning, “the second thing. This is top secret, invite-from-me-only stuff. It’s a secret family tradition that I’m only inviting the two of you and Ema and Kay’s tagging along because she’s like a superspy and found out about my conversation with Ema – anyway.” Leaving Apollo with little time to parse that sentence – does he know who Kay is? Has he heard that name before? He doesn’t think so – Trucy holds up a pointer finger. “You are both cordially invited to The Gourdyversary.”

“The what?” Apollo asks.

“The Gourdyversary,” Trucy repeats, sounding very serious but still grinning all the while. “The Gourdy Anniversary. It’s a very very secret Wright-Butz friendship tradition that is also very very important for the upkeep of Gourd Lake Park.”

“You’re losing me,” Apollo says. “Also, if it’s this secret, and you’re busting it open to everyone--”

“Not everyone! I thought Ema would be super interested, and Kay was being stalky, like I said, and then the two of you are super important parts other parts of the Wright-Butz social circle, so I was allowed to invite you!” Her eyes narrow in concentration. “Also,” she says, with an air of recollecting something, “Daddy mentioned you specifically, Polly, said that he’d like to see the look on your face because you always react a lot to finding out new magic stuff.”

“Great,” Apollo mutters. “I cordially decline your invitation.” He looks at Vera, who is just as confused as him, blinking her huge eyes owlishly at Trucy. “Wait,” he says. “‘Butz’? Who’s that?”

“You know – oh!” Trucy laughs and falls further back into the couch. “You don’t! That’s Uncle Larry’s other last name, the one he had first.”

On one hand, Apollo can’t really blame someone for wanting to be rid of that surname, especially in a profession where names are as important as they are to authors. On the other hand, there’s a certain expectation that Apollo has come to have. “Is this a fae thing in some way?”

Vera is the first to nod. “Deauxnim was one of the names his mentor used.” It appears thoughtless now, both the way she starts to raise her hand to her lips and the way she puts it back down. Is another incentive for her to break her habit of chewing her nails how strange the thought must be that she also has claws in a different form? Could it be possible for her to chew her claws off? “The last name she used before… before she died. She gave it to him.” She picks at the eraser on her pencil, clearly for something to do with her hands. “He – Mr Laurice offered it to me, too. If I want – if I want to sell my art someday and use it for my career, I could be…” She frowns at her sketchbook. “Vera Deauxnim.”

“I’d do it!” Trucy says. “It’s a good name, Uncle Larry says, and Uncle Valant always told me that it’s good to have spare names in case you really need to give one away.” She frowns, too. “But he only had one name. He was only ever ‘Gramarye’.”

“I know it’s a good name,” Vera says. “Mr Laurice says it’s lucky. But I have my name already, and it’s my dad’s. I shouldn’t – I shouldn’t give that up. Should I?”

“You’re not giving up anything!” Trucy says. “You’re Vera Misham and you can be Vera Deauxnim, like I’m Trucy Wright and then Trucy Gramarye on Youtube because that’s both my family and I can be both. Like Prosecutor Gavin said about different faces.” She spreads her hands wide in the air in front of her like she’s spreading something out for them to look at. “We contain multitudes!”

That pulls a grin onto Vera’s face.

“I must’ve missed when you started going by Gramarye again,” Apollo says. She’s called herself Trucy the Enigma, which he knows is a reference to her father’s name, and that was as far as he knew.

“Yeah,” she says, stretching herself out further on the half of the couch she has claimed. “It was sometime after we talked about just – me, and magic, in general, all that. And I thought, it’s my mom’s name too, I want to keep it for her. So I’ll make it mean something good, like I think it should be. Like I used to think it was.”

He wonders if when she holds the mitamah she hears something like he heard music; he wonders if he’d hear it again if he picked it back up. Sometimes he feels drawn to that drawer of Phoenix’s desk, a compulsion to understand who she was – is? A dead body with a bullet in it but a soul that is still here glowing? – that he stifles again and again. He opens his mouth to say something, anything, knowing how hard it all hit Trucy, knowing that she still can’t always find the light behind her eyes, but she forestalls him with a red-tinted grin. (A lie. Her smile is a lie, and it’s magic, a fae blessing, that tells him this.)

“Man, names are so complicated,” she says. And Apollo sees red and oh, this is the limit of it, isn’t it? Her smile is a lie but while he’s seeing that, any words she says might be true, might be a lie, and he’s already going to be stuck on her expression.

(Who was it that gave him Truth? Which one of them thought that was the most important gift? Dhurke? Datz? Nahyuta?)

“And they’d be this complicated even without all the magic,” Trucy continues. She cranes her neck to look at Vera’s sketchbook. “Ooh, nice!”

(Complicated, nonmagic, Apollo knows that too. On his birth certificate, a forgery, his father’s name is Jay Justice because his stage name was Jangly and they didn’t know his real name and even Datz who had the papers drawn up seemed to realize that they couldn’t put that down and just the initial J was a little sparse. His mother’s name they made up entirely. Dhurke named her Hera, because he always thought he was funny. Apollo had looked it up sometime in middle school. Hera wasn’t even the mythological Apollo’s mother.)

Vera has Trucy’s phone balanced up on the piano, showing off the selfie, and she is sketching from it but for herself, pointed ears and big eyes. “So what is the, um, Gourd… Gourdversary?”

“Gourdyversary,” Trucy repeats, as though she is teaching them an actual word that they might need to know. “You know Gourd Lake Park, maybe?” Vera shakes her head. Apollo nods. It was in the vague area of Apollo and Clay’s high school and a corner of the park was the popular hangout for stoners, which meant Apollo wasn’t surprised when a lake monster was sighted there. (He was surprised that tourists and not stoned kids who first made the claim.) In their senior year, he and Clay camped out in the abandoned, allegedly-haunted, boat shack, or tried to, made it to about midnight when Clay swore he heard a voice, and then later lied about it to their friends and Clay’s siblings to claim that they totally spent the whole night there and nothing happened. Every few years there were attempts to revitalize the park and make it a real community location. Those never worked.

“Well,” Trucy continues, “always sometime after Christmas, this year, it’ll be the 27th that, we go, before dawn, to the lake, to make the annual sacrifice.”

“I don’t like the sound of this in the slightest,” Apollo says.

“We don’t sacrifice people,” Trucy says. “C’mon, Polly. Really.”

“I hate that you know exactly what I was about to ask because it is actually a reasonable question in these circumstances.” Apollo smacks his head into the couch and stares at the ceiling. “Sacrifice what, then? To what? The lake?”

“You have to come along to know,” Trucy says smugly. “Exact time and meeting location will be disseminated only to true believers.”

“Believers of what?” Apollo demands.

Vera has folded her knees up onto the couch and has her sketchbook propped against them, her dark human eyes peering out from behind the top of it, darting between Trucy and Apollo.

“You’ll see,” Trucy says.

The next morning, Phoenix enters the office and asks for Apollo’s help getting the doors so that he can carry inside a heavy grocery bag filled with twelve-packs of hot dogs. “What is this for?” Apollo asks, when he’s followed Phoenix into the kitchen (not even asking why Mia wouldn’t get the doors because he knows the answer is going to be that she rightfully thinks whatever is going on is stupid) to watch him maneuver the contents into the refrigerator.

“The Gourdyversary,” Phoenix replies. He pushes the fridge door closed only for it to pop back open and six packs spill back to the floor.

“Is this a hazing ritual?” Apollo asks. “Like, am I getting hazed?”

“Apollo, I’m pretty sure the entire Kitaki case was the universe conducting a hazing ritual on you,” Phoenix says. “Why would I bother with anything else?” He winks. “See you bright and early tomorrow, huh?”

“I haven’t agreed to this ridiculous venture,” Apollo says.

Phoenix slams the refrigerator shut with more force this time. “But are you really going to disappoint Trucy?” He manages to take one step before, in defiance, the fridge spits some of its contents back out. “Come on, seriously?” he asks, turning about in a circle and gesturing helplessly to the room at large. “Just let us do our dumb shit, Mia, c’mon.”

Apollo leaves him to fight with the ghost of his mentor, only to find that Vera has definitively declined to join in on the Gourdyversary, and consequently, Trucy is pouting at him with the most pathetic puppy eyes he has ever seen from a person.

It isn’t that – he tells her, several times, it isn’t that – which gets him, and she, seeing Truth, should know that is the truth, but she keeps proclaiming victory for her powers of persuasion – “Powers of getting people to pity you, if anything” – when he acquiesces. It’s curiosity, purely and painfully, and if it’s only painful in the moment for everything required to make it to the main gates of Gourd Lake Park at 6 am, the chances are high that it’s going to be worse next time. And there’s going to be a next time, he’s sure of it: he’s come to feel at home in an office filled with the lingering wraith of a fae queen, followed Trucy and Klavier in pursuit of grimoires and faery rings, and he’s becoming desensitized, he’s sure of it. He’s on the road to becoming a missing persons report or a cautionary folktale for future generations.

But damn if he isn’t curious as to why Phoenix “cheapskate” Wright bought more than a dozen dozens of hot dogs.

Trucy’s gifts, the scarf and hat, seem to block out the wind better than any other he can recall owning, which Apollo tells her to note down for her experimental records when he reaches the park entrance. Twilight Realm yarn, helping him resist the fae’s cold snaps. The dead brown grass is dusted with snow and a few more errant flakes drift down from the dark sky. Whenever the sun finally rises, they probably won’t see it. Trucy is waiting when he arrives, bundled up in a heavy coat and matching blue knitted hat, scarf, and gloves, and talking with two women. One is Ema, recognizable by the crinkling snack bag in her hands – “Are you aware of the time?” “Yeah, it’s snack time.” – and the dead-eyed glare from over the pink scarf Trucy apparently saddled her with.

The other, Apollo has never seen, but when she spots him, she abandons her conversation and bounds over to him, grabbing his hand and shaking it enthusiastically. “Hi!” she chirps. “I’m Kay! Kay Faraday! Super glad to finally meet you, Apollo!”

Finally?

“Uh,” he says, allowing her to wrench his arm about, “I’m sorry, but I have no idea who you are.”

“That’s okay!” She lets go of his hand and strikes a pose, one hand in the air and the other on her hip. None of her clothing seems quite to match, a puffy pink coat with a huge dark scarf, gold hair accessories, and leather gloves that look more expensive than his life. “Kay Faraday, homicide detective, Great Thief and Mr Edgeworth’s first and best assistant, at your service.”

“You lost me at ‘thief’ right after ‘detective’,” Apollo says. He can already see why Trucy likes her, though.

“Get used to confusion,” Ema says dryly. “That’s all she does for you.”

“Rude,” Kay says. She skips back past Trucy and Ema and down the park path. “Let’s go get gourded out of our gourds already!”

“I don’t know what that means but I refuse to do that,” Ema says. She doesn’t move, watches Trucy race after Kay, and then holds out the Snackoos bag to Apollo. “Kay wasn’t even invited. She was just creeping around and was unrelenting in demanding to accompany me in finding out whatever Trucy’s on about.” Apollo declines the Snackoos and she shrugs and shoves a few more into her mouth. “That’s also how she makes friends so watch it or you’re next.”

“I see,” Apollo says, even though he isn’t sure that he does. “It sounds, uh, interesting down at the precinct.”

Ema snorts. “We’re like two steps away from being a coven at this point.”

“Prosecutor Edgeworth said something like that.”

She nods sagely. “He thinks he can stop it but I know it’s futile.” She stuffs the Snackoos into her jacket pocket and pulls her scarf up against the sudden onslaught of wind. “How’s Trucy doing?” she asks quietly, eyeing the distant backs of her and Kay. “Haven’t heard from her much since October and” – a pause, a search for a tactful phrasing that she doesn’t find – “all that shit.”

And it was, nothing but a bunch of shit, no more honest way Apollo can think to say it, Ema cutting back to the heart of the matter. “Better, I think,” he says. “We had a couple conversations about her family and er grandfather that seemed like – like she’s figuring it out.” Or just coping, but even that is harder than it sounds. “And Mr Wright is spending a lot of time looking into the mitamah thing trying to deal with that.”

“That’s good.” She sounds like she means it. “If anyone can find a way to fix it, it’ll be Mr Wright. I’m sure of it.” And on that she sounds so confident that Apollo almost believes her. Isn’t that how Trucy said magic works? And what must Phoenix have done for Ema that she still has such faith in him?

Trucy stands planted in the path ahead, fists on her hips, facing them. “Hurry up!” she calls.

“Bunch of snails!” Kay yells. Ema flips her off but above her scarf, her eyes squint up like she’s grinning.

“So clarify for me how you all know each other,” Apollo says when the four of them have reconvened. Along the edges of the path the trees thin out and he can see the dark glassy surface of the water. “Through Prosecutor Edgeworth?”

“Basically!” Kay says. “I first helped him investigate cases years ago – I saved him when he got kidnapped – then there were some international incidents – I got accused of arson once and murder twice – it was a ridiculous month. And we ran into Emmy” – Emmy? Apollo raises an eyebrow and Ema stares back with unchanging expression – “and she already knew Mr Edgeworth from stuff and she helped us out. And then later working with Mr Edgeworth, I met Mr Wright, and my little apprentice thief.” She throws her arm around Trucy’s shoulders and grins.

“I thought you were my assistant,” Trucy says.

“Anyway!” Kay barrels past that statement. Trucy sticks her tongue out at her. “Then Emmy came back to work at the precinct and hang with me again, and then she met you, and here we are!”

Apollo almost keeps pace with that. He has about half a dozen follow-up questions about the arson and murder, but they’ve come up to the biggest gathering area of the part, a few vendor’s stands unattended for the weather and time of day, and Phoenix and Larry waiting by the one bare tree in the area, the bag of hot dogs at their feet. “Hi, Mr Wright!” Kay shouts. “Hi, Mr Steel Samurai!”

“You’re never gonna let me live it down, are you?” Larry asks.

Kay swings a friendly punch at his shoulder. “Nah, but I don’t let Mr Edgeworth forget about it, either, if that helps.”

“It absolutely does,” Larry says.

“So are you gonna tell us what’s going on or drag out the mystery for a little longer?” Ema asks.

Phoenix and Larry look at each other. “I’m thinking we drag it out,” Larry says.

“I already have my reputation for being cryptic,” Phoenix says, turning his head to stare directly at Apollo, “so yeah, let’s torment the kids a little longer. And besides,” he adds, stooping and wincing as he hauls the bag back up into his arms, “we’ve still got a little further to walk. We’re heading back through the woods there – there’s a little outlet to the shore that’s a little more hidden.”

“The hot dogs are the sacrifice, right?” Apollo asks. Larry gives a thumbs-up. “So then you could just answer what we’re sacrificing to—”

“Wait.” Ema stops walking. “Trucy, you didn’t tell me there was ritual sacrifice involved. You just said ‘hey, there’s something you will want to see, scientifically speaking’ and I asked to make sure it wasn’t a hoax like the last time people said there was something cool at Gourd Lake—”

Phoenix and Larry glance at each other. Trucy looks up at them both. “No,” Ema says. “No, do not tell me that the lake monster is real.”

“You proved in court that it was a hoax,” Apollo says. “You proved that it wasn’t a real—”

“I thought I proved that,” Phoenix says, thankfully not taking any time to dwell on the fact that Apollo knows his cases well enough to know exactly when this happened. “I did prove that loud banging noises aren’t the hallmark of the monster, and that Larry was out on the lake looking for a bigass balloon he’d launched into orbit—”

“The balloon was also very real,” Larry supplies helpfully. “It was the Steel Samurai. It was pretty cool until I slipped up inflating it with the air canister. Launched that, too.”

“—but we were accidentally enlightened as to a little more, when was it – a couple days after the trial?”

“The day after,” Larry says. “And already you were moping about being lonely with Maya going back to Fairyland—”

“—so I went all the way to the bottom of my contacts list and came to hang out with you at your hot dog stand—”

“You had like, three people in your phone then. Don’t pretend like I was your last-ditch social reject friend! You’re my last-ditch reject friend!”

Ema coughs. Phoenix and Larry both clearly take the cue to continue the narrative. “We were about the only people in the park, hanging out back there.” Phoenix points back over his shoulder with his thumb. They are passing by the old boat shack now, its shattered windows and unstable rotting dock, and Apollo shudders. One step on that and it’s straight into the water. “And then, just, out of lake—” He waves vaguely and purses his lips together. “There she was.”

“And that’s why hot dogs?” Apollo asks. “Because he had a hot dog stand then?”

“Yeah.” Larry shoves his hands in his pockets. “Like hey, we didn’t know if it was gonna eat us, figured we’d throw some food that wasn’t us and hope that was enough.”

“And now we come back yearly with offerings to hopefully appease her and never find out why she was sealed away in the first place. Because as it turns out,” Phoenix continues, grinning broadly, far too amused for the fact that they are discussing the potential of some lake monster to eat people, “someone’s flyaway balloon got caught on a warding sigil and tore it off. Make a hoax monster while releasing the real monster.” His grin shrinks just a little. “We found the place where the seal originally was and went looking all over the park hoping to find it and put it back, but no such luck. Not like you can dig magic rocks out with a metal detector.”

“I cannot believe that Mr Edgeworth and I solved an entire murder conspiracy here at this lake and he never told me there’s a real monster in it!” Kay pouts. She does a good impression of a moody teenager, kicking a stray rock out of the way on the path, but she can only hold it for a few seconds.

Phoenix and Larry again exchange a look.

“He uh,” Kay says, her eyes narrowing, “does know about the lake monster, right?”

Phoenix sucks in a breath through gritted teeth. Larry elbows him in the ribs. “This one's all on you, buddy,” he says with a wicked grin. “You justify yourself.”

“Edgeworth does not know,” Phoenix says, sounding pained. Kay gasps exaggeratedly loudly. “Listen, we weren’t on as good of terms back then! He knew the part that came out in court about the hoax, and then I was not exactly sure that he would appreciate me reaching out to tell him no, there’s an entire fae monster actually there now.”

“And the ten years since then where you’ve been on very good terms?” Larry asks, still grinning.

“Fuck you,” Phoenix says to him. “I’d call it eight, also.”

“I think you should tell him,” Kay says. “He could stand to have his preconceptions shaken up every so often, that there’s more magic just chilling around than he thinks there is.”

“Yeah,” Phoenix says dryly, “until he asks me how long I’ve known and I have to figure out whether he’d believe it if I lied to him. Like logically I know the best thing to do, but at this point half of the fear of telling is the ‘why did you not mention that you knew this sooner?’ so I just drag it out even longer in the hopes that we’ll all live and die before Gourdy ever makes a situation where I’d have to mention it to him.”

“That is a very bad way of handling secrets, Daddy,” Trucy says.

“Oh, believe me, sweetheart, I know.” Phoenix frowns and sighs and shakes his head. “Though this isn’t just me covering my ass right now, but I think our new Chief Prosecutor has a lot more important things to deal with.”

The path they follow through the woods is almost overgrown with the tangled underbrush and buried beneath icy dead leaves. Phoenix and Larry, when they aren’t bickering, seem to confidently know the way, leading their small troupe out onto the saddest beach Apollo has ever seen. Sand and mud mix with snow for a slick surface that slopes straight down into the water, and an old weathered sign prohibiting camping is the only apparent clue that people come out here – though why anyone would want to camp here, Apollo has no idea.

Phoenix drops the bag into the wet ground. “Oi, Gourdy!” Larry calls. His voice doesn’t echo on the open lake but seems to be swallowed up by the white fog that has begun to swirl across the surface of the water. “We’ve got your yearly sacrifices!”

“Please don’t say it like that,” Apollo says. “That makes me think you’re going to throw us into the lake.”

“If I’m throwing anyone, it’d be Larry,” Phoenix says.

Larry, standing right at the edge of the water, flips him off over his shoulder. Through the fog, Apollo can see the water rippling, before it moves, pointedly, a long white wake pushing toward the shore. Larry scrambles backwards up the slope to Phoenix and the bag of hot dogs, grabbing an entire pack but not attempting to tear it open.

At first Apollo thinks that it’s a catfish, coming up strangely above the water. Then it keeps rising out of the water, far higher than a fish could, and he sees – he doesn’t know what he sees. It has a face like a catfish with the wide, gaping mouth, the barbels, and the beady eyes at the sides of its head; but past its eyes, it has small pointed ears and an otherwise horse-like body, its skin a slimy-looking brownish-green and its mane a long tangled curtain of seaweed. “Oh,” Kay says, very softly. “Oh, geez.”

Larry tosses the pack of hot dogs, plastic wrapping and all, in an underhand arc toward the creature. It stretches its neck out and catches the hot dogs in its wide mouth, throwing its head back and appearing to swallow the package whole. “You feed it plastic?” Ema asks. “It – her?”

“I call her ‘her’,” Phoenix says, “but that’s mostly because all the most powerful and terrifying fae I’ve known have been women, and not for any actual reason. But yeah, most of the fae and fae creatures I’ve known also have not been concerned with what humans do or don’t consider edible.”

“That sounds like some people I know,” Ema says. Kay pouts, but Ema isn’t looking in her direction. Her eyes are fixed, understandably, on the horse-catfish creature.

“S’good as far as keeping litter out of the lake,” Larry says. He grabs another package to throw. Phoenix hasn’t reached for the bag but is instead grinning at the stunned expressions on their three faces. “But yeah, we just show up, feed it a couple dozen hot dogs, and then do it again next year. Simple stuff.”

“So you really did just invite us to see the looks on our faces,” Apollo says. Phoenix’s grin does not waver. Trucy grabs two packs out of the bag and tosses them each at different sides of the creature – Gourdy, they call it Gourdy, a cute name for something that is frankly terrifying – and it swings its head about, inhaling one after the other.

“Worth,” Kay says, still wide-eyed.

“You weren’t even invited,” Ema says. She frowns, staring up at Gourdy from narrowed eyes. Is this how tall horses usually are? Did it get the size right when it took this nebulously horse-like shape? “I wonder,” she mutters, more to herself than anyone. “Do you think it always looked like this, or it tried to look like things that do exist in our world as a – disguise, I guess. An attempt at one?” She glances over to Phoenix. “Because you’ve said the fae in their true forms look sort-of but not quite like humans, but that they can’t really – alter their glamoured appearances very much?”

Phoenix nods. “It’s more innate,” he says. “What, say, Mia looked like is what Mia looked like. She didn’t just decide, oh, when I pretend to be human I want brown hair. But that’s just the fae, and fae animals are an entirely other barrel of catfish.” He reaches up to adjust his beanie. “Horses. Catfish-horses.”

“Someone who can’t really draw’s idea of a horse,” Apollo offers.

“Don’t be rude!” Trucy scolds. “She’s beautiful!”

Gourdy turns one tiny beady eye on Apollo. Maybe it’s just coincidence, but he decides that he’s not going to say anything that can be perceived as insult again – he doesn’t know how smart this thing is and if it’s fae it probably has very dangerous responses to insults.

“But it’s like…” Ema pulls her phone out of her pocket and starts frantically typing something. “Was it trying to look like natural wildlife? Is it coincidence? Convergent development? How long has it been sealed here and was that before horses were introduced to North America? I have questions!”

Phoenix chuckles and Ema lowers her phone, turning her furious glare on him. “Don’t laugh!” she snaps. “This is interesting! These are real questions!”

“I knew you’d think so,” Trucy says brightly, instantly diffusing the first bits of tension. “And since I dragged you and Polly out on... “ She sighs. “You know. So I thought I’d at least drag you out to some fun magic stuff!”

She thinks she owes them, to make up for the debacle of finding her mother’s soul. Or she was hoping for something like an adventure and wanted to bring them on that. Apollo isn’t sure whether he’d count this as fun, either, learning that there’s a catfish-horse that could probably kill all of them somehow in the lake, but Trucy seems happy.

“I promise I’m not laughing at you, Ema,” Phoenix says, holding his hands up in an attempt to placate her. Apollo doesn’t see that he’s lying. “It’s just nice to see you get a bit of your spark back.”

The angry huff of her cheeks deflates instantly. “I was probably real annoying as a kid, babbling like that the whole time while you were just trying to investigate, huh?”

“Not at all,” Phoenix says, and again, he isn’t lying. “I mean, I’ll admit to having been a little terrified that if I let you out of my sight you were gonna summon something or make a bad deal trying to get more tools for investigating, but I wasn’t annoyed.”

Ema pulls her scarf back up over her nose, but Apollo catches a glimpse of the sad smile on her face as she does. Then she steps forward and grabs a pack of hot dogs, extending it in her hand to Gourdy on approach. With about a foot between its mouth and her hand, she apparently decides not to risk having her arm be swallowed, and she gives the pack a little toss to get it to its destination. “Oh,” she says, “sort of related, Lana asked about you the other day, Mr Wright. Wanted to know how you’re doing.”

“Ah.” Phoenix rubs the back of his neck. “At least with the Jurist System you’ve got something to tell her more than ‘still sucks at playing the piano’.” His sheepish expression looks a little less when he reaches the part about the piano, and Trucy laughs. Apollo again wonders why he ever bothered to get a piano for the office. “Where is she now, anyway? She got out a year or two ago, right?”

“About two years now, yeah,” Ema says. There is a rhythm to them feeding Gourdy, now, Larry, Trucy, and Ema. Phoenix seems content to hang back, and while Kay bounds forward, Apollo has no inclination to join in on this part of it. “She’s out near Reno, just wanted to get away, and she’s talking moving out to London where we’ve got some family. She’s hesitating now that I’m back, or something, but I told her just get outta here, flee the continent, go somewhere that no one knows your name, y’know?”

“Oh yeah,” Phoenix says. “I’d – had that option, honestly, but—”

“But you didn’t do anything,” Ema interrupts. “And she kinda did… most of it.”

“Do you think Gourdy would let me pet her?” Kay asks.

“I would not try it,” Phoenix says. Kay’s shoulders slump.

“She was gushing about the Jurist System when we talked about it, though,” Ema continues, with only a brief roll of her eyes at Kay’s question.

“I can’t imagine her gushing,” Phoenix says.

Ema shrugs. “It’s – a big thing, y’know, to her. To all of us, but, she’d said – she’d said that maybe it could’ve helped stop Darke, put him away before even more people died and…” She looks from her phone down to the hot dog bag. Its contents are mostly depleted but she grabs one and hurls it with a surprising amount of force. “Good for cases like that. Common sense, no evidence, maybe now justice gets served.”

Apollo can’t say why the name Lana, Lana Skye, seems familiar, but he knows with the expression on Ema and Phoenix’s faces, he’s not about to ask.

Kay whispers something to Trucy and, both giggling, Kay hefts the bag and whatever remains in it onto her shoulder and flings the entire thing at Gourdy. Its mouth doesn’t look wide enough to take in the entire bag, but it does – the bag is there and then gone with a wet sucking sound in the time it takes Apollo to blink. He suddenly wonders if when Klavier complains about Vongole eating everything he has, he means everything, takeout containers and all.

“That’s, um…” Ema taps a finger against her chin. “That’s something. Kind of impressive. Kind of horrible!”

“And scientifically fascinating?” Kay prompts.

“Absolutely!”

“That’s all we’ve got,” Larry says to the beast, showing it his empty hands, like he’s sending off a dog that has gotten its share of treats but continues begging. “Good talk as always, Gourdy. See ya next year.”

Gourdy tilts its head, seeming to carefully survey Larry. It trots forward and for a horrible moment Apollo thinks someone is going to be eaten but Gourdy bumps its square fishy head into Larry’s face and makes an arc back into the water. Its tail is the same as its mane, stringy green and brown weeds with sand and grit tangled up in them. The water around it barely ripples as it enters, doesn’t splash when the creature goes from being half-visible to gone, and the wake moving away from them is weaker than the one that arrived. The arc of its hoofprints left in the snowy sand are backwards, like it left the water where it really just entered.

“Very slimy,” Larry says, wiping his face with his jacket sleeve. “Sticky, slimy, would not headbutt again.”

“But you’re friends now!” Trucy says. “Officially!”

“You never knew what its skin was like before?” Ema asks. She has her phone out again for notes. Kay peers over her shoulder. “Or beyond what you could see that yeah it’s probably fishy. How long have you been doing this again?”

“It’s… Shit.” Phoenix shakes his head, laughing again. “Ten years, now.”

“Plenty of time to have observed and thought about some of the questions on my list.” Ema lowers her phone and stares at Phoenix. “I have questions.”

“My answer is gonna be ‘I don’t know’ to most, but go for it,” Phoenix says.

“There’s gotta be somewhere open for breakfast, right?” Larry says. “Right? Who’s up for that?”

“Eldoon’s!” Trucy says brightly.

“Oh no, no no.” Larry holds up his hands and takes a step back from her. “Eldoon’s for breakfast reminds me of being broke as hell and I’m not about that.”

“That mean you’re paying wherever we go?” Phoenix asks dryly. “Since I got the hot dogs and you’re worth your weight in faery gold now.”

Apollo looks at Ema. Ema glances out of the corner of her eyes first at Larry, then Apollo, then Kay. Kay looks back and forth between Phoenix and Larry.

“Metaphorical gold,” Larry says, jabbing a finger at Phoenix. “You can not phrase it like that, so they” – he points a thumb toward Ema and Kay – “can not be terrified.”

“I’m super down for breakfast, if nobody else is gonna say anything,” Kay chirps.

“You not gonna eat garbage for once?” Trucy asks. She says it with a grin so big that Apollo would find it impossible to take offense if she directed those words or similar at him.

“Hey!” Kay protests. “It’s cheap! It’s cost-efficient!”

“Like you have to worry about that,” Ema says, elbowing her. “Like hell won’t be frozen before Mr Edgeworth lets anyone threaten your salary.” Kay elbows her back, apparently harder, because she staggers. “Anyway,” she adds, looking more at Larry and Phoenix again, “Interrogating you both over breakfast sounds great.”

“Do you ever worry that bringing more and more people in on these secrets makes them untenable?” Apollo asks Trucy. It’s probably a better question for Phoenix, but Ema has already begun the process of cornering him. “Just – showing off magic to us all?”

Trucy shrugs. “Maybe?” she offers. She hooks one arm through Apollo’s elbow and the other through Kay’s. “You and Ema already know so much other stuff.” For a moment her eyes are sad, downcast, and then she turns a sharp look on Kay. “You, though—”

“Guilty of whatever you say,” she laughs.

Trucy shrugs again, jostling Apollo’s shoulder too. “But also we’re like family, and family should get to know some of the weird fun secrets that we have.”

Again Apollo wonders at her definition of fun. But family. Or like family. Like-family is nice to have.

Phoenix, over Ema’s head, raises an eyebrow at her. “Hey Truce,” he says. “Does that mean you’re gonna run off and tell Edgeworth without warning me?”

“I might,” Kay says, snickering and nudging Trucy, who bumps Apollo with the force of it.

Phoenix snorts. “Yeah,” he says. “I know you would, but I’m not sure he’d believe you.”

#fic: the seelie of kurain #roddy fanfics

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mikegunnill · 5 years

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Love Beyond the Grave: Peter Cushing

August 11th, 2019 marks 25 years since Peter Cushing died in Whitstable. Fondly remembered by the town, one question is still asked about the man. Where is he buried?

The location of Mrs Cushings grave and for that matter, the grave of Peter Cushing has been a mystery since his death in 1994. With twists, turns and secrecy, this present day tale wouldn’t be out of place from that of Cushing’s acting world.

The couple were very close, and he often spoke of his admiration for the support he received from his wife. From meeting in 1942 to Mrs Cushing’s death on January 14th, 1971 they were described by many as “ inseparable “ and had, an almost spiritual relationship. She was his companion while on film location or in the studio, helping with his lines and providing him with much needed encouragement and confidence. They were rarely apart and throughly enjoyed each others company.

Helen Cushing was buried locally to their home in Whitstable, and he always expressed a wish to be buried alongside her. I doubt they have been separated after death, as a couple they were so close, during their life together. This is not only logical but it doesn’t take much time reading about Peter Cushing to understand his total love, affection and deep gratitude to his wife. Frankly the thought of them buried apart, doesn’t make sense.

However as Peter Cushing might have said while starring as Sherlock Holmes, I will present my evidence and let the you decide!

Born as Violet Helene Beck in St Peterburg, Russia on February 8th 1905. Her parents were Ernest Beck, who was born in St Peterburg in 1875 and Helene Alexandra Fatimia Enckell born in 1879 from Hamina in Finland.

Miss Beck enjoyed a priviledged lifestyle, provided by her father ownership of the Maxwell Mills in St Petersburg. His father Jack Beck originally from Ashton, near Preston in Lancashire had moved with his family to Russia to establish the James Beck Spinnery Company. Many families relocated from Lancashire to manage mills, train new workers and helping to pioneer the Russian textile industry. With imported British machinery and experience, this venture was highly successful and profitable for the Beck family.

Helene, who disliked her first name of Violet, had two brothers, Reginald Ernest Enckell Beck, 1902-1992 and Godfrey Charles Beck, 1903-1972. Also two sisters, Marjorie Elizabeth Beck, 1908-1985 and Doris Rosalind Beck, 1910-1980.

Life was good in Russia for the British, but the local work force became to dislike the working conditions and long hours. The Ministry of the Interior formed a legal trade union for mill works to help quell their discontent. Trying to present a petition in January 1905, over 200 workers were killed during a protest demonstration by Cossacks. Although this revolution was brutially put down and failed, the working atmosphere within the country changed. The Beck family, for example, watched with concern, as the red army practiced manoeuvres in the woods, behind their house.

From the time of the failed revoltution in 1905, the Beck family continued to have problems with some of their workers. It was clear to all, that Russia was no longer a safe place to live and that major changes was coming. Leaving most of their wealth behind, the family, in small groups hastily departed around 1911.

Returning to England, Helen Beck found work as a tutor, and later became a chorus girl which led to work in the theatre as an actress. She married Kenton Redgrave Kreitmayer in 1929 in Kensington. She lost a child in the final stages of pregnancy, which also removed the chance of further children. Kenton who dropped his surname of Kreitmayer by deed poll to use his middle name of Redgrave. He had previously been married to Vera Elizabeth Kathleen Hemingway, the daughter of John Hemingway. This marriage ended in scandal when she was divorced after admitting adultry to two men.

Peter Cushing lived in Brentwood, Los Angeles while looking for film work, but returned to England on the White Star ship, Tilapa from Halifax, Canada to Liverpool, on March 27th 1942. He gave the address of Cherry Tree Cottage, Horley Surrey as his permanent address in England. He needed to find work quickly and was accepted into the Entertainments National Service Association, in April 1942

Known professionally as Helen Beck, she first met Peter Wilton Cushing as a replacement actress for the Noel Cowards play, Private Lives. Sonia Dresdel 1909-1976 had to leave the tour because of the constant performing and travelling. Something that both Helen and Peter Cushing was suffer from,later. Miss Dresdel went on to become a leading actress in the West End, in films and later on television. She retired to Ransley Cottage, a grade 2 listed property in Kingsford Street, Mersham near Ashford, where she died on January 18th, 1976. Helen Beck took over, the leading role of Amanda Prynne. Cushing had secured the male lead role of Elyot Chase, and they played a recently divorced couple. They found themselves thrown together in this comedy of Noel Coward manners when they both realise that their divorce may have been a mistake.

Meeting to catch a bus at the Theatre Royal in Drury Lane,London for their first performance in Colchester they met at the stage door. Helen later said she thought they had met or she known “this man “ before. Quoted in later life she said,” I knew I would love him for the rest of my days and beyond.”

From May 1942 the company toured for ENSA, entertaining troops throughout the United Kingdom. This tour included the towns of Colchester, Wolverhampton, Oxford, Taunton, Oswestry, Canterbury and Dover. The tours were hard work, with all experiencing long hours. While lodging in Bridge during the Canterbury performances, Helen became ill and had to miss some of the booked shows. Soon after Peter fell ill and they both left the touring group.

They became inseparable after the theatrical tour, and Helen quickly became the centre of Peter’s life. With only her parents present as witnesses, the couple married on the 10th April 1943 at Kensington Register Office in London. According to the wedding certificate Violet Helene Redgrave was 37 years, the divorced wife of Kenton Redgrave and Peter Cushing, 29 years, was a batchelor. Both gave their address as, 18 Bullingham Mansions, Church Street, in Kensington.

Helen gave up her career, to help Peter and continued to coach and suggest new area’s of work for Peter throughout her life. This included Shakespeare, and when times were hard, working for BBC Television. Peter starred in Pride and Prejudice as Mr Darcy, as Winston Smith in George Orwell’s play 1984 and as the series, Sherlock Holmes in 1968. He appeared with Morecambe and Wise, between 1969 and 1980 in a long running comedy sketch, where he was trying to locate his missing £5 fee from appearing on the first show.

In 1969 they moved from old converted stables, a small two bedroom property at 9 Hillsleigh Road, Holland Park, London to Whitstable. Friends had mentioned a white boarded cottage right on West Beach, a short distance from the town. The move was mostly for Helen’s health, as it was hoped the move away from London to Seaway Cottages would help with its fresh sea air. This proved not to be the case and despite nursing by Peter, Helen Cushing died at their Whitstable home of emphysema in 1971. Helen had only been in Whitstable less than 2 years.

On her death, Helen Cushing left Peter a note.

< Do not pine for me, my beloved Peter because that will cause unrest, do not be hasty to leave this world, because you will not go until you have lived the life you have been given and remember, we will meet again, when the time is right, that is my promise.>

The personal letter, provided by Peter Cushing was quoted for the first time in 1990, by Canterbury film maker Peter Williams, MBE in his television series: The Human Factor, ‘For The Love of Helen.’

Helen died on the Thursday at 9.02 am 14th January 1971, and after a service was held at Barham Crematorium near Canterbury her ashes were later interred in Seasalter.

Peter revealed in a later autobiography, that he ran out. on to the wet, windy beach in front of their cottage immediately after her death. He then returned and ran up and down the stairs, as if trying to induce a heart attack with the greive. Peter Cushing would continue to morn for his wife, for the rest of his life.

Peter Cushing mentioned, several times after her death, noteably in a 1972, Radio Times interview, said that he wished to join her.

During the interview he insisted with the writer, that he should include his comments, adding:

“To join Helen is my only ambition. You have my permission to publish that, really, you know dear boy, it is all just killing me. Please say that.”

In 1985 Peter Cushing wrote a personal note to the television programme, Jim’ll Fix It. Jimmy Saville returned an earlier favour and granted his wish to have a rose created in his wife’s name. Christopher Wheatcroft cultivated the rose as a one off commission, a mix of the verttities, Silver Jubilee and Deep Secret, produced in pink. Peter appeared on the show sitting next to Jimmy Saville and got his wish, a new rose called, The Helen Cushing.

The Cushing’s used to have a huge garden in Whitstable, stretching behind most of Seaway Cottages, down to the road, Island Wall. The landscaped garden with a white shed, contained plants and roses and a local man assisted with the maintainance. The garden has long gone, sold off and cleared to provide for another house on the corner and larger cottage gardens. The special pink rose must still exsist, perhaps with Mrs Broughton?

A seat from his garden was later presented to the towns people of Whitstable in 1992 and is located at what is now known as, ‘Cushings View’. Situated in front of Keam’s Yard, car park and looking out to sea. It was a spot Peter Cushing loved, and he used to walk or ride his bicycle along the seawall from his cottage, a short distance away.

Details on the bench are : < Presented by Helen and Peter Cushing, who love Whitstable and it’s people, so very much.>

His wife was included on the inscription even though she had died 21 years earlier , Peter always used her name when sending Christmas cards and personal letters, and signed off as, ‘Helen and Peter’.

Steve Coneys was the vicar at the time at St Alphege Church, Seasalter and remembers Mrs Cushings death. She was placed by the north wall of the church, where other ashes have been interred. Asked about the rumour that her remains had been moved on Peter’s wishes, Reverend Coneys said:

“ For that to happen an exhumation order should have been obtained. I should have been aware of that. I do not recall that being the case.”

A headstone placed soon after her death, with a poem from her husband was removed after Peter Cushing’s death. Today the grave is difficult to find and the remaining inscription is not readable. Peter Cushing always stated he wished to buried with his wife and after his cremation at Barham, many including the The Independant newspaper reported that “ Seasalter Church was his last resting place “, in his obitary. While visiting his wife, sometimes on his bicyle, Peter always sat on the green wire bench a little distance from the grave. One day he was concerned that an unknown visitor had placed flowers on her grave and this deeply troubled him. He also knew that local church officials had often removed notes and requests for his autograph from her grave.

It seems, at this point in his life he may have changed his own funeral plans, or at least some of the arrangements. It was clear, he didn’t want to create a shrine in the churchyard and certainly didn’t like the fuss surrounding film star, whether dead or alive. Seasalter residents recall seeing him, visiting, sometimes on a daily basis. He would be reconised of course, but during his visits, he would talk to others, rarely. One churchyard visitor said, he spoke one day to me, about the weather. I was lucky, as he often seemed very deep in private thought. He would always tip his hat, to the ladies, he was a wonderful gentleman.

Peter Cushing lived with the Broughton family in Hartley near Longfield, Kent on and off towards the end of his life. He spent less time at Seaway Cottages, where his house keeper, Maisie Olive had taken up residence, to be on call when needed. Mrs Joy and husband Bernard Broughton would take it,in turns to care and sit with him. One spending the night, the other sitting during the day. It was Peter himself who decided to enter the Pilgrims Hospice on London Road,Canterbury where he died on August 11th, 1994.

On Friday August 19th 1994, Whitstable town came to a standstill, many shops closed as a mark of respect. Led by Terry Davis of John Kemp Funeral Directors, using one of Peter Cushing’s own walking canes, led the funeral cortege. First to Cushing’s View, and then, to the Tudor Tea Rooms in Harbour Street - a favourite spot for Peter’s afternoon tea and cakes. The procession travelled along the High Street with many residents following behind while in the town, and then on to Barham Crematorium for a final private ceremony.

Terry Davis, who now has his own funeral business in Cornwallis Avenue in Aylesham, remembers the day with pride. From his company web site he notes: “ I will always remember 1994. I had the privilege to conduct Peter Cushing's funeral in Whitstable. The High Street was crowded by the general public wanting to pay their respects, this was a fitting farewell to a first class actor of his era.”

On January 12th 1995, a memoral service was held in St Paul’s Church, Covent Garden attended by friends, family and fellow film stars. Christopher Lee and Ron Moody read the lessons.

The normally sedate Whitstable and Herne Bay Times newspaper, published a front page story on Thursday, 15th June 1995. Under the headline ‘ Cushing Grave Mystery’, it repeated concerns of some local residents in the town about the location of his grave. In reply to the story, his secretary from 1959, Mrs Joyce Broughton of Hartley and Faversham said: “Mr Cushing asked us to place him somewhere private.”

“ He was a very private man and did not like all the fuss and attention he was given.”

“ He is now in a private place. It was what he wanted and I have simply carried out his wishes.”

The story was followed up by the News of the World and the Sunday Times newspapers, which only added to the mystery and was also widely condemmed for it’s speculation, by Cushing friends and fans.

After his death, Mrs Margaret Broughton and her husband, Bernard Broughton were left the entire Peter Cushing Estate. A company Peter Cushing Productions Limited had been formed earlier with Mr Broughton as a Director and Company Secretary and Mrs Broughton as a director. As well as helping displays and background details on the life of Peter Cushing, the trust gave permission for The Star Wars franchise. They wanted to use, an image of Peter Cushing in the film,20 years after his death. A computer generated image was digitally created for the Star Wars, Rogue One film, after Cushing had previously appeared in the 1977 film, Star Wars, New Hope. Many were not sure about the CGI-resurrection, but the company said Peter Cushing had been proud of his Star Wars connections, and the work had been done with a great deal of affection. “ We would never have proceeded without the backing and approval of Cushing trust officials”, added an official press statement.

Helen and Peter Cushing are still a part of Whitstable and are remembered with a great deal of affection. The town allowed the couple and later Peter in his grief, to live a near normal life, by just leaving them alone. For this, the couple both recorded their thanks, many times. It came as a shock to many, that that towns folk couldn’t pay their respects to the actor and his loving wife, not knowing the location of their final resting place.

The anicent church of St Alphege, known affectionaly as “the Old Church’ in Faversham Road, Seasalter must hold the mystery of where Peter Cushing is buried. The church has known many mysteries from origin in 1023 to the present day, but much like Mrs Joyce Broughton, isn’t revealing anything.

#Peter Cushing #Helen Cushing #Whitstable #St Alphege #Seasalter #Joyce Broughton

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janiedean · 7 years

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day seven: free choice

↳ la storia mia con te (my history with you): an italian throbb fanmix

(or: I had to show my roots at some point. jsyk, I HATE AT LEAST FOUR OF THESE SONGS but I had to make it half trashy songs. I regret everything.)

[DOWNLOAD FANMIX] [LISTEN ON PLAYMOSS] [DOWNLOAD TRANSLATED LYRICS]

1. dieci ragazze [ten girls] - lucio battisti

Vorrei sapere chi ha detto che non vivo piu' senza te Matto, quello e' proprio matto perche' forse non sa che posso averne una per il giorno, una per la sera pero' quel matto mi conosce perche' ha detto una cosa vera Dieci ragazze per me, però io muoio per te

[I’d like to know who ever said That I can’t live without you anymore A madman, that guy’s a madman because Maybe he doesn’t know That I can have one girl in the day and one in the evening, But that madman knows me Because he said something true Ten girls for me, ten girls for me But then I die for you]

2. la storia mia con te [my story with you] - gianni morandi

Ti ho lasciato per un attimo che sa di libertà, Mentre raccontavo all'anima un'altra verità E scoprivo terre vergini, nuovi mari e poesie Tra un panino di illusioni e un morso di forti nostalgia E così mi mancano i tuoi occhi per vedere intorno a me I giorni sono scossi da 'sto vento che non smette mai E nell'aria c'è uno strano senso di te E c'è una storia che non trova pace La storia mia con te tra buio e luce

[I left you for a moment that tasted like freedom While I told my soul another truth And I discovered uncharted lands, new seas and new poems In between a sandwich of illusions and a bite of nostalgia And so I miss your eyes to see around me The days beaten by this wind that never stops And the air strangely feels like you But there’s a story that finds no peace My story with you, in between darkness and light]

3. quella che non sei [the one you’re not] - ligabue

Io ti ho vista già eri in mezzo a tutte le tue scuse senza saper per cosa Eri in mezzo a chi ti dice “scegli”: o troia o sposa Ti ho vista vergognarti di tua madre fare a pezzi il tuo cognome sempre senza disturbare che non si sa mai. Quella che non sei, quella che non sei non sei ma io sono qua e se ti basterà quella che non sei, non sarai, a me basterà.

C’è un posto dentro te che tieni spento è il posto in cui nessuno arriva mai

[I’ve already seen you, you were in between all your apologies Without knowing what they were for And you were in the middle of who tells you, either a whore or a bride I saw you feeling ashamed of your mother Tearing your surname to pieces Without ever disturbing, you can never know The one you’re not The one you’re not, you can’t be But I’m here, and if it’s enough for you, The one you’re not, you will never be But it’ll be enough for me

There’s a place inside you where it’s cold It’s that place where no one could ever walk in]

4. xdono [forgiveness] - tiziano ferro

Perdono si quel che è fatto è fatto io perché chiedo Scusa regalami un sorriso io ti porgo una Rosa su questa amicizia nuova pace si Posa perché so come sono infatti chiedo Perdono si quel che è fatto è fatto io perché chiedo Scusa regalami un sorriso io ti porgo una Rosa su questa amicizia nuova pace si posa Perdono

[Forgiveness... Yes, what’s done it’s done but I apologize Gift me a smile, I’ll give you a rose A new peace lies over this friendship Because I know how I am, so I ask for forgiveness Yes, what’s done it’s done but I apologize Gift me a smile, I’ll give you a rose A new peace lies over this friendship Forgiveness]

5. io voglio vivere [I want to live] - nomadi

So che può far bene anche gridare Per riscattare l'anima dal torpore So che ad ingannarmi non è l'amore Perché voglio amare Io voglio vivere, ma sulla pelle mia Io voglio amare e farmi male, voglio morire di te

[I know that screaming can be good To save your soul from numbness I know that love is not what’s betraying me Because I want to love I want to live, but on my own skin I want to love and to hurt, I want to die of you I want to live, but on my skin, I want to love and hurt, I want to die of you]

6. nessuno mi può giudicare [no one can judge me] - caterina caselli

Se sono tornata a te, ti basta sapere che ho visto la differenza tra lui e te ed ho scelto te Se ho sbagliato un giorno ora capisco che l'ho pagata cara la verità, io ti chiedo scusa, e sai perché? Sta di casa qui la felicità. Nessuno mi può giudicare, nemmeno tu!

[You only have to know that I saw the difference in between you and him And I chose you If one day I made a mistake, now I understand That I paid dearly for the truth I’m apologizing to you, and you know why? I know happiness has a home here No one can judge me, not even you!]

7. hotel supramonte - fabrizio de andré

E ora siedo sul letto del bosco che ormai ha il tuo nome Ora il tempo è un signore distratto è un bambino che dorme Ma se ti svegli e hai ancora paura ridammi la mano Cosa importa se sono caduto se sono lontano Perché domani sarà un giorno lungo e senza parole Perché domani sarà un giorno incerto di nuvole e sole Ma dove dov'è il tuo cuore, ma dove è finito il tuo cuore.

[And now I’m sitting in the woods that have your name Now time is a distracted man, a child who sleeps But if you wake up and you’re still afraid give me your hand What does it matter if I fell, if I’m far away Because tomorrow it will be a long day without words Because tomorrow it will be an uncertain day of clouds and sun But where is your heart? Where did your heart ever end up?]

8. una canzone d’amore [a love song] - 883

Se solo avessi le parole te lo direi anche se mi farebbe male se io sapessi cosa dire, io lo farei lo farei lo sai Se lo potessi immaginare, dipingerei il sogno di poterti amare, se io sapessi come fare, ti scriverei ti scriverei una canzone d’amore, per farmi ricordare per farti addormentare che faccia uscire il calore che non ti so spiegare solo per te

[If only I had the words I would tell you Even if it would hurt me If I knew what to say I would do it, you know I would If I could imagine it, I’d paint The dream of being able to love you If I knew how to do it I’d write you A love song To make myself remember A love song to make you fall asleep A love song that can make us warm A love song that I cannot explain you Only for you]

9. vivere senza te [living without you] - nek

Per paura di non essere nessuno Ti fai strada nella vita come puoi E non sempre trovi chi ti da una mano Ci provi ma non sai, Se un giorno ce la fai

Vivere senza te potrei sparire Non è uno scherzo Se non ci fossi te ora sarei diverso Adesso che ti ho non mollo più A stare senza te non c'hai provato tu

[When you’re afraid to be no one You try to push through life as well as you can You don’t always find someone helping You try but you don’t know, if one day you’ll make it Living without you, I could disappear It’s not a joke If you weren’t here now I’d be different Now that I have you I’m not letting you go Try living without yourself, you never did]

10. sarà perché ti amo [it must be because I love you] - ricchi e poveri

Ma dopo tutto che cosa c'è di strano è una canzone sarà perché ti amo se cade il mondo allora ci spostiamo se cade il mondo sarà perché ti amo. Stringimi forte e stammi più vicino è così bello che non mi sembra vero se il mondo è matto che cosa c'è di strano matto per matto almeno noi ci amiamo

[But after all, what’s so strange about this? It’s a song, it must be because I love you If the world falls then we should move over If the world falls, it must be because I love you Hold me tight and stay closer to me, It’s so beautiful that I can’t believe it’s true If the world is mad what’s so strange about it It might be mad, at least we love each other]

11. parlami d’amore, mariù [talk to me about love, mariù] - juan diego flòrez

So che una bella e maliarda sirena sei tu So che si perde chi guarda, quegli occhi tuoi blu Ma che mi importa se il mondo si burla di me, meglio nel gorgo profondo ma sempre con te, sì, con te.

Parlami d'amore, Mariù! Tutta la mia vita sei tu! Gli occhi tuoi belli brillano Fiamme di sogno scintillano

[I know you’re a beautiful and enchanting siren, I know that the one who looks in your blue eyes loses, But what do I care if the joke’s on me, I’d rather be in a deep whirlwind, but always with you Yes with you

Talk to me about love, Mariù! You are my whole life In your eyes beautiful flames of dreams sparkle and shine]

12. una su un milione [one in a million] - alex britti

Non ho detto mai di essere perfetto se vuoi ti aiuto io a scoprire ogni mio difetto. Se ne trovi di più ancora mi sta bene basta che restiamo ancora così insieme [...]

Amo, amo è un dono di natura perché la nostra storia non è solo un'avventura Amo, amo è una semplice canzone e serve a me per dirti che sei una su un milione

[I never said I was perfect if you want to, I can help you find out each of my flaws If you find even more, then it’s all right with me As long as we stay together like this [..]

I love, I love, it’s a gift of nature Because our story isn’t just an adventure I love, I love, it’s only a simple song And I need it to tell you that you’re one in a million]

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mountain-time · 7 years

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2017 Kentucky Derby Horse Names Review

The Kentucky Derby is a grand sporting tradition dating back to 1875, when confused Hermeticist Kenneth Tuckyderby misinterpreted the prisca theologia and decided it necessary to periodically have horses run around in a circle to “wind up” the heavens and keep the universe in motion. He was never corrected by other members of his faith because they all really liked the hats they got to wear to the annual “Winding of the Celestial Clock” ceremony.

Tuckyderby died in 1891 while attempting to alchemize cadmium into hand cream in a poorly ventilated bathroom, but his legacy lives on. The Kentucky Derby has transcended Hermetic culture and achieved widespread acceptance, owing mostly to the hats, but also to the names breeders give their horses.

Below are the names of the 2017 Kentucky Derby contestants.

Irap

Either this is a miscapitalized nickname for a knockoff breakfast chain called International Residence Admitting Pancakes, or someone didn’t mind their p’s and q’s when naming an animal “Iraq.”

Score for IRAP: C- Score for Irap: F

Gunnevera

If your firearm spends too much time in the sun and ends up getting burned, rub some gunnevera on the affected area. Gunnevera: It’s Aloe Vera for Guns! F

Tapwrit

If you guessed “tapwrit” was the past tense of “typewrite,” congratulations! (You’re wrong, but it feels like you should be right, and that’s kinda good enough these days.)

I could also see some post-apocalyptic sci-fi wherein technology has to be rediscovered; meanwhile, English spelling has lost conventions like a North Carolina expo center. In this bleak world, “tapwrit” is a decent new name for a typewriter, but it’s still a shitty name for anything that either exists now or is alive ever. D-

Classic Empire

I don’t know about you, but when I think of ancient Greece, Rome, the Mongol Empire, or even the Xiongnu, I think of a horse running around in a circle for no practical reason. C

Always Dreaming

This horse is the plot twist in about 10,000 movies. I guess “Dead All Along” and “Turns Out They Were Family” were already taken. C

Irish War Cry

Why use an actual Irish war cry to name something when you could just name it “Irish War Cry”? Likewise, if you want to name your son after your granddad, just name him “After Your Granddad.” D

Gormly People with the surname Gormly: Don’t read this.

Everyone else: “Gormly”? GORMLY. Say it aloud: Gormly. This is one of the worst words I’ve ever heard. This is the dwarven character in a fantasy novel you’re supposed to despise. It’s a curse a gypsy puts on you that makes your skin look like a fleshy Koosh ball. It’s a kind of porridge made of maggots and possum cum.

Gormly is pretty much the worst combination of syllables ever to exist. Z

(If anyone named Gormly did read this: You are beautiful and I would like to have your children.)

Practical Joke

Picture it: The race is about to begin. Tension is high in the starting gates; the jockeys are waiting for the bell with the taut anticipation of a dog watching a person grill bratwurst. It’s painfully still for what seems like eternity, but suddenly—THEY’RE OFF!

Heartbeats quicken and mint juleps are spilled as hooves drum on the track like golf ball-sized hail pummeling the roof of a Ford Aerostar. The competition is fever-pitched as the racers fight to solve for R in R=D/T.

Except for one guy. One jockey is still in the starting gate, utterly nonplussed. Why won’t his horse move? I’ll tell you why, bucko: That isn’t a horse. It’s a near-perfect animatronic replica of a horse, and I’ve got the remote control. Suck on that! C+

Battalion Runner

Well, they’re half-right. This creature is 100% runner, but 0% battalion. Normally, a 50% score gets you an F, but in the world of Kentucky Derby names, it’s a solid B.

Malagacy

Sometimes it’s hard to be an internet horse name critic. It can be a tough job. Most people don’t realize this, though, because

1. It isn’t a job, and

2. It isn’t really that tough.

But when you’re given a name like “Malagacy,” which I’m not even sure how to pronounce, things get tricky. I assume it sounds like “Mal legacy,” which could mean it’s what a bad person leaves behind after they die, or it could be Justine Bateman’s legacy as a TV character. I don’t know. All I do know is that “Malagacy” seems like a rejected name for a character in Krull.

Don’t even watch the Kentucky Derby. Just watch Krull. D-

Lookin At Lee

“Why pay for Levi’s when Lee is arguably the better brand?” the horse. C+

Battle of Midway

This horse is going to turn 75 next month, which means it’s currently 71 years too old to run in the Kentucky Derby. In the late ‘80s, this would’ve easily been a greenlit premise for a comedy starring George Burns as the voice of the horse. It would suck, but I'd still watch it once, probably. B

Hence

If we have to name animals, we might as well name them after adverbs. B+

(Why isn’t Krull on Netflix?)

J Boys Echo I don’t know what j boys are, and I don’t know what makes them more resonant than other boys, but they do appear to be edible. D

Fast and Accurate

“So! What do you want to name this horse?” “Well, I definitely want it to sound fast.” “I’ve got it! We’ll name it ‘Fast.’” “Hold on. There’s more.” “…Ok…” “I want it to sound accurate, too. Like a rifle.” “Accuracy isn’t really an important attribute for race—“ “This horse needs to sound like it can fell a moose at 400 yards.” “Not a lot of moose in Kentucky, sir.” “And we’re gonna keep it that way.”

…I don’t even care about the name; I just liked writing that skit. A-

McCraken

Everyone knows this horse’s first name is Phil, but that’s boring.

Instead, this is the son of the Kraken. It looks like this:

B+

Thunder Snow

Lightning creates thunder, and thunder shakes the snow out of the clouds. That’s just science. B-

Girvin

If I were going to make a character who was a combination of pocket protector-nerd and caveman, I’d name him Girvin. Funny thing is, Caveman Games already made that character, but called him Vincent. I’m giving preference to Girvin, though, because it sounds a bit like “give in,” and I love a quitter. C+

Untrapped

This is the only contestant in the race that chooses to live in a barn that reeks of shit. Presumably it even pays rent and supplies its own blinders. D

State of Honor

“State of Honor” is exactly the kind of banal appellation one presupposes from a possessor of equine sprinters.

There. The only thing more tedious than the first three words of that sentence are the last ten. D-

(I don't actually even want to watch Krull, but it seems like something I should be able to do at will in this, the futuristic year of 2017.)

Patch

You might think this guy was named “Patch” because he only has one eye, but in fact, it’s because of his lifelong nicotine addiction. Dude was up to 6 patches a day. Ended up injecting vape juice directly into his eyeball and went berserk. He tried to take a cop’s gun, but then realized he had no thumbs and smacked himself in the face so hard his eye fell out. Seems to happen somewhere every year. C+

Sonneteer

If a musketeer fires muskets, and a rocketeer fires rockets, it stands to reason that a sonneteer sets fire to sonnets.

(And THAT’S how you get out of writing a poem, my friends.) B

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allofusandco · 7 years

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worm + crisis + umbrella

Veronica meets Nik; she’s been taking photos of cheating spouses all night, and he’s working in a bar. A random thread that launched an improbably and gorgeous ship.

with @moonoverbourbon

Nik:

Nik futzed with the umbrella, growling under his breath when the damned thing wouldn’t open. It was quickly becoming a crisis, water pelting down on him in sheets and soaking him to the bone. He’d just gotten off work at the bar, it was seven in the morning, and he was starving - not a great way to end the day. (And to top it off, he was pretty sure he’d just stepped on a worm on the sidewalk - gross.) “Bloody hell,” he spat, spotting a blonde walking nearby on her way (he assumed) to the coffee shop a few doors down.

“Excuse me, love, you wouldn’t happen to know how to work this thing would you? I’m starting to look like a drowned rat here.”

–––––

Ronnie:

A crick in her neck from keeping nice and low under the car window, about four hundred and fifty photographs and a parking ticket, but at least she had the evidence she needed that Mr. James L MacGillicuddy was a lying shitbag who was scamming his customers, his staff and - alright, with a little bit of interpretation - the IRS. So she was smug, and? She was due an Irish coffee. The proper kind. Not with syrup, with actual whiskey.

She squinted at the stranger, and patted her pocket for her tazer.

“I have most definitely worked an umbrella or two in my life,” she said, taking it off him and reaching for the release, high up on the… shaft? Unfortunate choice of nouns. Whoops. She’d never given any thought to umbrella parts before. “Drowned rat no more. Or… at least it shouldn’t get any worse. For what it’s worth - coffee shop has a fake open fire. Doesn’t smell right, but there are flames.”

––––

Nik:

Nik took the umbrella back with a grateful smile, albeit a little sheepish for not being able to get it open in the first place. He must have looked like a bloody idiot. “Thanks, love. I appreciate the rescue. Never let it be said that all Knights in Shining Armor are men.”

He glanced down the sidewalk toward the coffee shop and nodded. “I was actually heading that way. I worked all night,” Nik jerked his thumb back toward the bar behind him. “Figured I could use a proper bite to eat before passing out. It was a busy night – bachelorette party that got a little wild. I, uh, I’m rambling. Shall I walk you? I mean, if that’s where you were headed…”

–––––

Ronnie:

Hmm. Accent. Veronica liked accents.

“Sure, why not?” she said, with a little shrug. “I’ve been working all night myself.” She glanced behind them – oh, she knew that bar. She’d definitely trailed a couple of people who visited it often. Good sort of place to go if you didn’t want to be noticed. “I’m a private investigator. And I think I saw a couple of the bachelorettes puking in the alley a little while back. I didn’t take a photo, but now I wish I had.”

They step inside the café – it was mostly people eating a very early breakfast and downing black coffee in an effort to get sober enough to drive home, she suspected. She visited the place regularly enough to be recognized, and just headed for her favorite table with a little wave.

––––

Nik:

Nik didn’t know what he was doing. He wasn’t smooth; he didn’t ask…well…anyone if he could walk them to coffee shops, and he didn’t do too well with small talk. The fact that she was a private investigator should have sent him running, would have too if he wasn’t so damned hungry and in need of caffeine after a ten hour shift.

“A private investigator? That must be exciting.” He smiled, though there was an undercurrent of nervousness to it – people looking too deeply into his past was Nik’s greatest fear. “And I think I would have paid handsomely for those pictures. I could have put them up in the bar as a warning to others.”

He followed her into the café, but it became that awkward moment where he didn’t know if the invitation extended to sitting with her or whether he should find his own table. “I, it was nice to meet you, love. I should let you get to your coffee. My name is Nik, by the way. Should you ever need a properly shaken martini, you know where to find me.”

–––––

Ronnie:

“Oh, now, come on,” Veronica said, pointing across the table. “I rescued you from a very unruly umbrella. The least you can do is keep me company while I stuff myself full of caffeine so I can stay awake until my nine o’clock meeting. And then I’m out like a light.”

She raised her eyebrows expectantly. He hadn’t come off like the shy type when they’d met, but people reacted one of two ways to hearing she was a PI. Oh, well, there was the occasional person who immediately threw her a job, of course, but those were the rarity. Unfortunately most people had lives that precluded the frequent use of services like hers.

“Just sit,” she said again, seeing his doubt. “I promise. No invasive questions, I won’t take your photo or try to figure out where that accent comes from, and I don’t sprinkle crumbs everywhere.”

She needed raisin toast with cinnamon and sugar on it. Pronto. “Besides, we’re bound to run into each other again, and this way we’re like pre-made besties.”

––––

Nik:

He hesitated another second, but then took the seat she’d indicated. It couldn’t hurt to sit and chat awhile, and it certainly beat his usual morning ritual – a cup of coffee and spot of breakfast, then home to his tiny apartment to sleep until it was time to do it all over again. Predictable. Boring. Maybe a change would do him good.

“And a splendid rescue it was,” Nik teased. “I’m almost positive it would have been the death of me had you not ventured along.”

Nik tried to relax, did actually when she promised no invasive questions. He was being silly, of course; it wasn’t like she’d been paid to find out anything about him – and he’d likely never see her again after this morning. “The accent is from London, just outside the city actually. I’ve been here in America for about ten years now, since I was eighteen.”

There. He could make polite conversation; he wasn’t completely incompetent when it came to talking to women.

“Pre-made besties?” He raised an eyebrow, but cracked a grin at the comment. She was…quite the outspoken one. The waitress came; Nik ordered his usual coffee and bagel before going back to the conversation. “I haven’t had a pre-made bestie since grade school, but I seem to recall knowing their names…” He shot her a teasing smile. “You know mine, but I’m still clueless as to yours. Are you one of those mysterious girls who refuses to give up any bits of information about themselves?”

–––––

Ronnie:

“Local bartender brutally slain by own umbrella,” Veronica said with a nod. “I can read the headlines now. I saved you from a humiliating epitaph, if nothing else.”

For someone as observant as Veronica, it was impossible to miss how Nik relaxed suddenly when she promised no invasive questions. Of course, that made her want to ask some. Damn her brain for being so contrary. She reminded herself this wasn’t high school anymore; snooping got people hurt, and she wasn’t going to do it.

… but she really, really wanted to. Dammit.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “That was really rude of me.” She held out her hand for a firm handshake. “Veronica. Veronica Mars. I answer to pretty much any nickname except Vera, because that’s an old lady name. Ronnie, Vee…”

She fished in her oversized bag, pulling out a camera and a couple of wireless receiving devices before she found a business card. “There. Feel free to tell me I look too young to be a PI. I miss that.”

Alright, no invasive questions. No invasive questions. “How’d you become a bartender?” she asked; innocuous enough. “You like it? The hours must be pretty bad, but I bet you get used to it. Mine change all the time. These all night stakeouts aren’t as easy as they were.”

––––

Nik:

“I would have been on that bloody show that talks about people who die in embarrassing ways. I can see it now; my father would be so proud.” Maybe there was a bit of sarcasm at that last part. Mikael hadn’t been proud of Nik in…well, ever. “You saved my family’s honor.”

He grinned sheepishly, ducking his head like a bloody school girl. “Veronica,” Nik repeated. He hated nicknames; they seemed so informal. It had been a habit of his since he was old enough to talk; he just didn’t do it – preferred the way someone’s given name sounded. “It’s a lovely name.”

Vera would never do, not for her. He was hard-pressed to see her as a Ronnie either, so Veronica it was.

“I wouldn’t dream of insulting you, love, but I can say that when I picture a private investigator…you’re not exactly what comes to mind.” Nik stirred sugar into his coffee, followed it up with cream, and took a deep sip before he continued. The caffeine was exactly what he needed; it would keep him going for a bit longer. “But when I think PI, I think middle-aged man with a beer gut and a horrible suit.”

The questions weren’t invasive, and seemed to be ones that he could handle without too much difficulty. She seemed to be holding to her promise of nothing too personal. Nik liked her for that. “I kind of drift from place to place. That makes me sound horrible doesn’t it? Bartending was that one job I could always seem to get; every town needs someone to sling drinks.” He shrugged, drinking down more of the blessed caffeine. “It’s a living. I quite like getting to see new people, talk about their lives and what not. What about you? Why this line of work, and do you fancy it?”

–––––

Ronnie:

A drifter. And that accent. And definite daddy issues, but who didn’t have daddy issues of some kind? Veronica swore she wouldn’t try to get a surname from him; it would only be a tiny step closer to finding out everything she could, and she really was trying to be a better person.

Trying. Not always succeeding.

“Ah, that would be my father,” she said, with a grin. “Well, I wouldn’t say a beer gut; maybe a teensy paunch? But he was a PI. He’s the Sheriff of the town I grew up in, these days. Sheriff again. But he’s how I started out.”

She really wasn’t sure why she was still gabbing away, but it wasn’t like she was going to say anything that wasn’t public record in one way or another. And talking about Lily just didn’t hurt the way it used to.

“Grew up in this weird town that was a combination of the very wealthy haves and have nots. Probably before you moved here. About twelve years ago, my best friend was murdered. My dad was the Sheriff at the time. Oh, a guy stepped up, confessed to the murder, but my dad never bought it. It got him thrown out of office, and he started up his own PI company, partly so he could keep investigating. I… accidentally turned out to be a damn fine little apprentice. Before I knew it, I was busting dog-stealing rings and student scandals left right and center. When I was nineteen I got my license, and the rest… isn’t quite history, I guess. I spent a few years determined to go straight, went to law school. But turned out I wasn’t really cut out for the path of the angels. And here I am. Neptune was getting a little small for two of us. And out here no one ever recognizes me. Of course, if I ever get sent to investigate you, we’re screwed, unless you want to pay me to go away.” She leaned in, faux whispering. “I have morals – but I can bought.”

She chuckled as she leaned back, ordering a light breakfast from the waitress.

––––

Nik:

“I’m sorry to hear about your friend,” Nik said, sincerity in his voice though he winced at the word ‘murdered.’ It still hurt to hear it, even after nearly ten years of being away from his father and last talking to his siblings.

Nik listened to the story, content just to have someone to talk to that wasn’t plied full of alcohol and talking in the hopes of scoring a free drink. It was amazing, however, how often that worked – how many free drinks he gave away just to keep someone talking to him. There wasn’t much of a social life outside of the bar, so this was a novel treat.

“Did they ever find out what really happened?” he asked, too curious to stay silent, even though it may have been something she didn’t want to discuss. “You can tell me it’s none of my business if you’d like. I was just curious if your father’s hunch was correct?”

She’d been a private investigator for a number of years, it seemed. That didn’t make sitting here having a casual conversation any easier, especially with the things she’d been through. Victoria was seeker of justice; Nik had dodged it – this was thin ice to be walking on.

He laughed at the joke, though he was mentally calculating how much money it would take for her not to investigate him. Probably more than he had. “I’m screwed then, love. I’m a bartender at a local’s bar; I don’t make nearly the money that I would over on Bourbon Street. But then again, I’m not quite fascinating enough for someone to want to investigate, so perhaps I’m safe.”

His father didn’t know (likely didn’t care) where he was, and his siblings hadn’t spoken to him since he left for America – he was pretty sure he was safe unless her own curiosity got the better of her. “What are your favorite cases to work on?” Nik asked, changing the subject before he could delve any further into himself.

–––––

Ronnie:

When she was a little younger Veronica had taken to telling people it really wasn’t a big deal, she was over it; but now, she accepted the condolences, and allowed herself a moment to grieve. Only a moment. She had moved on, she had a big life.

“My father was right… to a degree. And they did find the murderer. I did. You might have even heard about it. The actor – Aaron Echolls. From…a bunch of movies. The Pursuit of Happiness? Cheesy action movie, I’ll honestly respect you more if you don’t know it or make a face…? He and Lilly had been having an affair. He did it.” Did she mention Logan, Aaron’s son, and their on-again off-again, epic tale of love? No, she did not; strangely enough these days that hurt more.

“He was found innocent, but strangely enough, he was killed in a hotel room a few hours after he was released. Can’t even imagine how that happened. I guess karma is a really well connected bitch.”

Okay, enough about Lilly. “Well, then, if I ever get asked to investigate you, we’ll have to work out some sort of barter. I don’t really like paying for drinks, for example?” She grinned, and giggled. “I’m sorry. I’m so far past tired I’m delirious. My kingdom for a job that doesn’t involve insurance fraud or cheating spouses. My favourite cases happen between nine and five, so they really don’t exist. Oooh! Croissant,” she said, reaching for the plate.

Had her career really been more exciting in high school and college? What a terrible thought.

“Of course that begs the question, why aren’t you bartending topless on Bourbon? By the way – not objectifying you. Much.”

––––

Nik:

“I don’t watch a lot of movies,” Nik said sheepishly, as if he knew he should have known and felt bad for being clueless. “I don’t even own a telly. Haven’t in…” He thought about it for a moment, trying to recall the last show he’d watched. “a year probably. Since I got my apartment. Before that, I’d just watch whatever was on at whatever motel I happened to be staying in.”

He stirred sugar into his coffee, listening to her tale of retribution and karmic justice with a bit of a lump in his throat. “Fate has a way of catching up to those who do horrible things,” Nik nodded, eyes focused on the swirl of cream into the cup. He liked his coffee sweet and nearly white – and right now his preference was coming in handy. It meant he could keep his eyes on the drink instead of her.

Karmic justice – he’d certainly had his fair share of that.

“I’m sure that whatever befell him, it was exactly what he deserved.” Verbatim what had been told to him for the three years between the time Henrik was killed and he was old enough to leave home.

Nik sipped at his coffee, listening intently to her as she spoke about the cases she loved. He grinned, shaking his head at her enthusiasm for the food as it was put in front of them. “I can imagine that getting a steady night’s sleep is difficult in your line of work. Cheating spouses and insurance fraud don’t knock off at five o’clock, I assume?”

Waving off her apologies (really, this was the most amusing conversation he’d had in a long time), Nik dug into his own food before nearly swallowing it whole at her question. “I’m not much for the attention. I mean, there are those who can do that and get away with it, but I’m not quite so lucky. I am skin and bones, first of all (and scars – belt buckles left the most telling impressions),” he shook his head, but he was smiling. “And secondly, I prefer the locals. Less crazy, more mellow – more apt to take care of their favorite bartender. On Bourbon, people are sloshed all the time; contrary to popular belief – drunks are horrible tippers.”

–––––

Ronnie:

“Honestly, his movies all had two things in common – they were big hits, and they were bad. And it’s considered to be in pretty bad taste to play reruns of movies starring a guy who killed his son’s underage daughter with whom he was having an affair.”

So glib. Hard to believe she’d come so far. It was a little sad, in a way.

“So lucky you – you’ll probably never see them, even if you end up buying a TV. Which, by the way, kudos. See I go into withdrawals if I don’t spend a few hours a week feeling morally superior to everyone who would sign up for the bachelor or get themselves on Jerry Springer. Maybe I should get rid of mine.” If only she could pretend to be highbrow. Nope. What little television Veronica watched was one hundred percent trash.

“Actually, cheating spouses usually start well after five, although I’ve stuck my nose in on a couple of very tawdry nooners.” She winked. Actually, she could never understand cheating spouses. Lifeblood or not they made her stomach churn. And she had no idea how people lived with the anxiety. She remembered years back, her father and his married girlfriend – enough to make her nauseous all over again.

At least he’d done the right thing, even if he’d only done it for Veronica. And maybe the world’s best dad was allowed a fuckup every decade or so?

“But insurance fraud… you really never know. Guy walking around with a cervical collar in public and taking it off as soon as he’s sure he’s alone – that can take days, and it’s boring as hell.”

She sipped her coffee, sweet and milky and strong,

“You could definitely use some fattening up,” she agreed. “But it’s amazing what bright eyes and pouty lips will do for your tips. I should know – I was a barista for a whooooooole six months.” She grinned, nose crinkling. Her customer service had been a mixed bag at best. “I’d suggest you stick your chest out, too, but you’ve got even less of a rack than I do, so maybe not.”

Sparkling personality notwithstanding, Veronica hadn’t made a lot of friends in New Orleans. So she was enjoying herself – so what?

“Maybe I could get you something really fattening for dinner before a shift one night next week. Deep fried bacon cheeseburgers, anyone? Oh, and one of those onion blossom things.” She shrugged. “If you feel like it.”

––––

Nik:

“Tawdry nooners. That sounds like quite the interesting lot of stories,” Nik grinned. “I image you’ve seen some pretty incredible things in your line of work. It must be a little exciting, despite the waiting around for nothing to happen.” Despite his lack of enthusiasm for her looking into his own life, he’d sit here all day and listen to he tell stories of others.

So he liked a little salacious gossip…

The coffee was hot and strong, just the way he liked it. The food was good too – just what he needed to end a particularly long shift on his feet. It was days like this that Nik wished he had a desk job. (Okay, so not really, but a guy could dream. He liked the newness of his job every night – the new faces, the new situations. He wouldn’t have traded that for anything. Maybe he just needed new sneakers.)

He ducked his head, blushing a bit when Veronica said he could use some more meat on his bones. Nik didn’t think he was that bad, lean yes, but he had never been much of an eater. When he was younger he would eat anything put in front of him, but after… well, after he got older he just didn’t think about it as often.

Truth be told, he didn’t take very good care of himself, and he hadn’t in a really long time.

His head shot up at the bright eyes and pouty lips comment, confusion etching across his face for a moment. Was she talking about him or her? The confusion morphed into a goofy grin when she suggested he stick his chest out. “Perhaps I’ll try that, love. Though round here doing that is more likely to net you cheap plastic beads than extra cash.”

Nik opened his mouth to speak again, or shove food into it – he wasn’t quite sure which – but it closed just as quickly when she spoke about the two of them having dinner. Was she asking him out? That just didn’t happen for him, and he was pretty sure he’d simply misunderstood. Maybe she was just being friendly to the guy who couldn’t even seem to work an umbrella?

“Um.” Well, that certainly wasn’t the first word that should have come out of his mouth. “Are you…uh…did you just ask me out?” God, he was smooth. They should make a fucking shrine to how smooth he was. Nik wanted to bash his head into the table and sink through the floor.

Idiot.

“I’d like that,” he amended quickly, attempting to salvage something from his own idiocy. “I know a great place that the locals go not too far from here. They have cheeseburgers as big as your head. I can give you my number, if you want. Or take yours. I just, uh, I’m sorry. I’m a bloody idiot. My social skills are abhorrent.” He was rambling. Jesus she’d probably already changed her mind. “I’m sorry.”

–––––

Ronnie:

Veronica tore less than daintily into a very fresh croissant – unless she was much mistaken, fresh out of one of the earliest bakeries in the quarter. The steam, buttery and fragrant, rose like a tease and she tore at the flaky pastry.

Delish.

“I was just wondering the same thing myself. And I think I did ask you out. Which is a novelty, for me, it’s been a while. At least, in the real world. I’ve done enough half-assed entrapment jobs in the last year to retire on – you know, woman thinks her husband is cheating, I can’t find any proof he is, so she doubles the fee to see if he can be tempted into it – nasty, but lucrative. But that’s beside the point. Yes, I think I asked you out. And I’m thinking neither one of us is very good at this, so let’s keep it simple.”

She dug around in her handbag (thing was huge, and completely full of things that would make her look like a crazy person, to most people, but were legitimately necessary – a handful of bugs, three spare lenses, no fewer than eight burner phones with information on the back about who she was supposed to pretend to be if one of them rang. Makeup, a dark bobbed wig in a ziplock bag so it couldn’t get chewing gum on it, a tablet computer, a fold up umbrella she fished out for obvious reasons, three pairs of oversized sunglasses and for reasons she suddenly couldn’t remember, a bikini top.

… some mysteries were best left mysteries.

She fished out a business card, and scribbled her personal number on the back.

“Call me,” she said. “I’m sure even a pair of bozos like us can figure something out. And stop looking like a deer in headlights. I don’t bite, and I haven’t had much of a chance to meet people since I’ve been here. Outside of a professional capacity, at least.”

She reached for the coffee again. One more mouthful and all that milky, sugary goodness was gone. Tragic.

“Well, Nik,” she said, as she polished off the croissant, and reached for the last strawberry, “I need to go home and sleep or I’ll wrap my car around a streetlight. It was really nice to meet you. Really nice.” As she stood, she offered her hand for a shake.

He really did look a little stunned. Yeah, she still had it.

––––

Nik:

Nik’s eyes trailed over the purse she was digging through, wondering just exactly what she was going after – and what the hell else was in there. When Veronica pulled out a business card, he smiled and ducked his head a bit shyly. God, why wouldn’t he talk to women? Hell, why couldn’t he talk to anyone? Something else he would always blame Mikael and his mother for – his inability to think someone actually wanted him, and didn’t have some sort of agenda.

He took the card, glancing down at the number before shoving it into his back pocket. Putting it into his phone would be first on his agenda when he got home. How long was one supposed to wait to ring someone up for a date though? It had been so long since he’d been on one, he had no idea.

“I will,” Nik nodded, standing when she stood. He took he hand, giving it a gentle shake. “I’m sorry. I just don’t do this often; I don’t get asked out a lot, and as you can probably tell – I don’t do a lot of asking out either. I’m not…the most social of creatures.”

Watching as she walked away, he finally sat down to finish his own breakfast – still not quite sure what had just happened. He’d call her though – maybe after he asked someone how long he should wait. Seeming too eager was just as bad as seeming too distant…and he really did want to get to know her, much to his own surprise.

~completed thread

#v: I have no idea either #ronnie rp #moonoverbourbon #the thread that started it all #all of us; & queue

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