#Phryne Cocktail
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Mr. Butler’s Phryne
“Mr. Butler refilled his [Dr. John Wilson’s] glass. This friend of Miss Fisher’s was a war hero. He should have the best that the Fisher ménage had to offer. Who knew how many young men lived because of Dr. John Wilson? And nearly at the cost of himself. It was like Miss Fisher to think of a solution to a sniper in time to save a friend’s life. Bold but not really reckless.. Those ambulances had armoured sides.
Mr. Butler decided he should create another cocktail for her on the morrow. He would call it ‘Phryne’. Sour, certainly, with a lime juice base, perhaps, and... Cointreau? Cherry brandy? Noyau? This would require study.”
Like Mr. Butler, I like mixing and creating cocktails. And like Miss Fisher, I like sipping them, whilst lounging luxuriously. And Ava and I both adore the Melbournite sleuth dearly. In fact, on the very day we met --dear me, was it almost ten years ago?-- on a hot June day, she was watching an episode of the series, with the delightful Essie Davis playing the detective! Thus, it seemed only appropriate we began our (second) six months’ anniversary feast (delayed by a fortnight; but she wasn’t here a fortnight ago) last night with a couple of Mr. Butler’s Phryne!
Ingredients (serves 1):
8 ice cubes
2 small, ripe limes
1 tablespoon Manuka Honey Syrup
2 teaspoons Cointreau
60 millilitres/2 fluid ounces (4 tablespoons) London Dry Gin
a dash Angostura bitters
Place ice cubes in a shaker.
Thoroughly squeeze the juice of both limes, and pour over the ice. Add Cointreau, Manuka Honey Syrup and Gin. Close shaker tightly, and shake energetically until well-chilled.
Strain into a coupe glass and add a dash of Angostura bitters.
Repeat, serve your beloved, and toast to happiness with this beautifully sour Mr. Butler’s Phryne! Happy Friday!
#Recipe#Drink#Drink recipe#Mr. Butler’s Phryne#Mr. Butler’s Phryne Cocktail#Phryne#Phryne Cocktail#Gin Cocktail#Gin Cocktail recipe#Gin#London Dry Gin#Lime#Lime Juice#Fresh Lime Juice#Honey Syrup#Manuka Honey Syrup#Cointreau#Orange Liqueur#Angostura Bitters#Ice#Ice Cubes#Cocktail#Cocktail recipe#Drink and Literature#Phryne Fisher Cookbook#Phryne Fisher#Mr. Butler#Murder and Mendelssohn#Celebratory Drink#Date Night
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New Orleans Cocktail of the Month for January - The Creole Mary
Whether you're still recovering from New Year's, already fully recovered, or never had to recover, a Bloody Mary might just be what the doctor ordered. And, naturally, one with a New Orleans twist would be the best choice.
Information provided for educational and entertainment purposes only. Please drink responsibly.
#miss fisher's murder mysteries#mfmm#miss fisher con#missfishercon#miss fisher and the crypt of tears#the adventuresses’ club of the americas#phryne fisher#ms fisher's modern murder mysteries#peregrine fisher#new orleans#nola#cocktail#cocktails#bloody mary#crescent city
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Hc time!
You seem like the type of person to only drink like pretty coffees and teas from mason jars and metal straws
You also totally always pick the window seat in a café
And and, you went through an academia phase
Honestly I live for this headcanon and wish this were how I am gkdjsg
But some of it's right tbh. I do always pick the window seat in the cafe so I can watch all the people passing while I do my work or my writing, and so I have a real marker of productivity—if I'm not noticing the window and just working, I know I'm in a zone of deep focus.
Also I did 100% go through an academia phase. I loved dark academia and always wanted to study in the most aesthetic, old looking part of my college. And I loved when it would rain and I could drink my black coffee by the window.
But I'm not super big on the prettiest coffees and I'm not a tea person no matter how hard I try lol. I'm really not big on mason jars but I do live for a metal straw. Like I have them in my backpack rn.
But I do fuck with this:
#I really want to make a mason jar cocktail like this#like I've been thinking about it all summer#But I love you clocking all of the vibes pretty accurately!!#Thank you for the hcs hun!#for fuckyeah-drag race#asks answered#about phryne
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Miss Fisher Snippets (66)
I am heading to Louisville, Kentucky, for Miss Fisher Con 2022, playing dressing-up, enjoying cocktail parties, and partaking in many fun events for the next three days (August 4 – 6). Organized by the capable committee members of The Adventuresses Club of the Americas, a group of Miss Fisher fans meet up somewhere in the U.S. once a year to show the world how much we love the fabulous lady detective and her friends. This year there is an extra special reason for celebration as it’s the 10th year anniversary of the TV show. Since the debuted in Australia on 24-Feb-2012, the show has been aired over 100 countries and territories, winning the hearts of millions of passionate fans around of the world.
If you are unable to attend the con physically or virtually, I hope you will participate spiritually by re-watching the show and/or the movie, following the posts on social media (#missfishercon or #missfishercon2022), reading the Phryne Fisher book series, etc. Enjoy!
(Posted 03-Aug-2022)
#miss fisher snippets#game set and murder#miss fisher con#missfishercon#missfishercon2022#foxypedia#miss fisher#missfisher#mfmm
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Kinktober 2022
Day 2: Neville Longbottom/Lord Voldemort (Seduction/Honeypot)
The Parkinson estate was hosting the Minister’s gala that Samhain, which was the only reason Neville Longbottom managed to get invited. Not under his own name, obviously. Since the fall of Hogwarts during Neville’s sixth year he, along with everyone who had rebelled against Voldemort’s reign, had been labeled as fugitives. The name Longbottom, along with names like Dumbledore and Weasley and shockingly even the muggle name Granger, had been banished from polite society unless followed by a curse.
No, Neville would be attending the gala as Leto Phryne, a distant cousin of Pansy Parkinson. So distant that her parents weren’t even aware Leto had died of Dragon Pox three years earlier. Though, to be fair, her parents were also unaware of Pansy’s position as spy for the Order of the Phoenix.
The spy in question was lounging near a roaring fire, splayed across a chaise lounge and sipping a cocktail that reminded Neville of the radioactive toxins in Ron’s muggle comic. Her dress robes were a dark red, so dark they were almost black, and did little to hide her plump curves. But they did manage to hide the various muggle knives she tended to carry with her. Draco Malfoy stood nearby, bragging about his latest conquest in Germany which Pansy was blatantly ignoring, even as her sharp brown eyes tracked the movement of everyone mingling about.
Why couldn’t it have been her, Neville bemoaned to himself. It had been Pansy, after all, who had been clever enough to figure out Snape’s role as a spy, determined enough to learn how to read and shield minds from Snape in secret, and brave enough to kill Snape in order to establish herself in Voldemort’s order. Neville also knew, from late night conversations that she had been kind enough to spare Snape the torment that would have come from Voldemort killing him instead.
It should have been her, or maybe Hermione. A muggleborn witch who willingly removed herself from her parents’ memories, all to protect them from a war she didn’t have to be a part of. Hermione who had gone on to take command of the Order after Dumbledore’s brutal execution and after Moody fell to the wand of Bellatrix Lestrange. A witch so clever she had invented Neville’s disguise, a transformation created by a series of runes, hidden in plain sight.
“We’ll need to pierce your tragus, but the runes are on the piercing’s backing so no one should realize what it is.” Hermione had told him days earlier when she finally disclosing the plan she and Ron had been putting together for months.
“My what?”
“The knobby bit of the ear.” Ron had informed him, much to Hermione’s annoyance.
They had pierced his ear, or specifically the tragus, that same night and for days he lived in Leto Phryne’s skin. Getting used to the loss of two inches of height, to the redistribution of fat from his waist down to his hips, to the inky black hair that spilled down his back. He still wasn’t completely comfortable with it, but that didn’t matter. Not when he had a job to do.
His last job, most likely.
“Cousin Leto!” Pansy crooned, pulling him into a hug just a little too familiar for a pureblood heiress. In that moment of contact she hissed that the dark lord had finished his ritual and was approaching the party. When she pulled back her expression turned bright. “Are you planning to dance with me tonight?”
Neville forced a laugh. “No, I would fear too much for your toes.”
She laughed back, the same simpering laugh she had employed in Hogwarts to keep people at a distance. “We’ll save it for later, then I can have an excuse to leave this party early.”
He translated what she was saying, still unused to the codes and double talk she spoke like it was her first language. There was still a later, they hadn’t been discovered, he could still go to her to get out of the manor, they were still safe.
Neville very much doubted that he’d be able actually escape, but before he could dwell too much on that the main doors opened and admitted their new Minister of Magic.
Lord Voldemort, heir of Slytherin and master of the dark arts, strolled into the gala with a calm and collected air. Not a single brown lock was out of place, there were no wrinkles or smudges on his crisp black dress robes, and he didn’t even seem tired from the Samhain ritual everyone knew he had just come from. If anything he looked bored, eyes traveling across the crowd to confirm everyone had stopped their chatter.
“My most loyal, welcome to another Samhain. The summer and her harvest is retreating, winter and her restful darkness approaches. To another year of our glorious reign!” His voice was clear and carried the same pureblood accent Neville knew he hadn’t earned from growing up in the high society of wizarding Britain. Dumbledore had told Neville the truth about Voldemort, about Tom Riddle, and about the prophecy that had driven the dark lord to try to kill an infant. The prophecy that had driven Lord Voldemort to successfully kill Harry after tricking him into participating in the Triwizard Tournament. The prophecy that driven Neville to this very gala.
“It could also be you, my boy.” Dumbledore had confided, just days before his capture and execution. “You may be the only hope we have to finishing this war.”
And it was the hope that lead to Neville Longbottom staring up at the mad minister who had killed his housemate and who would kill him too if only he knew who was standing there. If only he could see past the transformation and know who was wearing Leto Phyrne’s skin. If only he could see the vial of basilisk poison hidden in the core of Neville’s wand.
It took almost an hour of awkward dancing and socializing and pretending, and finally Pansy got Neville close enough to the dark lord for him to catch those blood red eyes. They hadn’t been sure about the bait, working off rumors and idle gossip, but in the moment Voldemort caught sight of Neville’s disguise, with sun kissed skin and wavy black hair and pale green eyes, Neville knew it had worked.
And without warning Pansy tripped him, subtle enough to not be caught but obvious enough that he would have to address the Minister.
“I’m so sorry, my lord!” Neville stuttered, not having to fake the anxiety that welled up inside him.
Those red eyes, the source of his nightmares since he was fifteen, raked over his borrowed form. Aristocratic features smoothed from annoyance to interest, and his pale pink lip turned up in a smirk.
“I shall gladly grant forgiveness, in exchange for your name.”
“Le-Leto Phryne, my lord.”
Pansy, forever the more competent between them, smiled sweetly, “Leto is my cousin, my lord. He studied potions in Greece, but wanted to visit and see what ingredients Britain has to offer. I hope you don’t mind him joining us this evening.”
Voldemort turned his smirk towards her, though it seemed to sharpen just as quickly. “I am always pleased to meet the family of my inner circle. Though perhaps you should have warned me. I could have arranged for you both to join this evening’s ritual.”
“Pansy had mentioned you were doing something special,” Neville said, remembering the irritation Hermione and Ron had gone through not knowing what the Dark Lord would use the night for. Samhain could be used for all manner of dark rituals, and not knowing which he picked put the Order at a severe disadvantage. “May I ask what that was? I haven’t heard much about ritual work up North.”
The dark lord leered down and Neville found himself wishing he had his normal height back. It wouldn’t have helped much but at least he wouldn’t feel so very small. Or perhaps that was just his nerves that allowed Voldemort to loom so large over him.
“Simple enhancements, actually. Improvement to my senses, like sight and hearing. And of course better endurance and stamina. Boring ritual work to be sure.”
Neville relaxed just slightly. Ron had suspected that would be Voldemort’s goal given the components they’d discovered him collecting, but Hermione had worried he would do something to regain his immortality. Destroying Nagini had sent him into a rage their world still hadn’t recovered from, but shockingly her death hadn’t lead him to seek out his other horcruxes. Perhaps as she had been killed in a desperate final attack from Ginny Weasley, one that left no survivors, hadn’t revealed that they had been targeting the giant snake specifically. Perhaps that was why he hadn’t gone to collect the remaining pieces of his soul. Not that he would find them, as Hermione and Ron had spent the last five years hunting them down, all to be destroyed the night before.
It wouldn’t be long until he discovered the destroyed pieces of his twisted souls but hopefully that wouldn’t matter. As long as Neville could get him away from the other guests, even for a moment, there was a chance they would win.
That opportunity, blessedly, came sooner than Neville expected as Voldemort moved closer. His warm breath fanned across Neville’s cheek, his red eyes locked onto Neville’s tongue as it darted out to wet his lips. The rumors had been true after all.
“Lady Parkinson, might I show your cousin more of the estate?”
Neither looked at Pansy, who any other time would have been insulted on behalf of her family, that someone would be so blatant with his lust. But Pansy was a professional in all things, so she merely bowed her head.
Voldemort extended a hand, leading Neville away from the party and away from safety. But he’d never really had the chance for safety, not since his very birth. Still, he hoped that whatever happened next Pansy could escape. That she and the rest of the Order received their new, happy world.
He wasn’t surprised that they went straight to the wing of the manor Voldemort had occupied for the last few days. According to Pansy it was once meant for extended family, big extended families, but in the build up to the gala it had been refitted for just one person. Neville allowed himself a moment of awe for the paintings, all scenery and no portraits. A moment to marvel at the hand carved features in every room. A moment to admire the tapestries where embroidered unicorns frolicked. It was a beautiful place to die.
Though he still wasn’t sure who would be dying.
“You are quite lovely, young Leto.” Voldemort said as they crossed the threshold to the master bedroom. Long thin fingers carded through his borrowed black hair, which Ron had teased into a chaotic, but flattering, arrangement. “Such stunning hair. A veritable mane. I suppose that makes you a lion.”
Leto wouldn’t have known about Hogwarts and her houses. Leto wouldn’t have known that so much of Voldemort’s propaganda came from his Slytherin legacy and his disdain for Dumbledore’s prior house. Leto wouldn’t have been offended or terrified by the nickname.
A shame that under everything he was still Neville.
Blessedly he was distracted by petal soft lips touching his own. The kiss was shockingly soft, surprisingly sweet, and all together lovely. But it didn’t stay lovely long, soon turning rough and possessive. The dark lord hauled Neville’s slight frame up, nibbling at his lips even as he crossed the room towards the bed. Neville tried to hold on, tried to keep up, only to squawk when he was dropped onto the bed.
“Lovely lion, whatever shall I do with you?”
Neville’s face felt like it was on fire, but he managed to remain demure, pale eyes watching Voldemort under black eyelashes. “Please, my lord, may I be granted a boon?”
The appeal to pureblood culture, to the history of masters granting boons on the most sacred of holidays, seemed to please Voldemort. Even as he knee pushed between Neville’s legs, even as he towered over his prone form, he seemed to be softening once more. “A boon?”
“Please, sir, please let me pleasure you.”
Voldemort laughed, deep and dark, only stopping to nibble at Neville’s earlobe. “I shall grant this.”
Gathering every drop of Gryffindor courage Neville surged up, flipping Voldemort onto his back and bracketing him with his legs. The older man was strong and solid, but seemed pleased and indulgent at Neville’s initiative. A hand reached up, settling on his ass, but Neville pulled the wandering hand away. Nervously he chewed at his bottom lip, barely noticing Voldemort’s eyes darken with lust as he watched.
“I haven’t done this before.” Neville admitted. Leto had. His half blood bastard lived in Greece with her mother, who had been glad to support the Order and their ruse. But did Voldemort know that, or would he believe Neville’s shy admission. “Could I...do you think you...I mean….”
Voldemort’s free hand reached up, thumb running gently over Neville’s bottom lip. “Whatever you’d like, pet.”
With shaking hands Neville unraveled Voldemort’s cravat, made of silk so fine it felt like water in his grasp. He fiddled with the fabric, even as Voldemort pushed at his borrowed dress robes. They must have felt so harsh compared to the silk and satin the dark lord surrounded himself with. Neville allowed him to remove their robes, before knotting the cravat silk until it could serve as handcuffs. “Would it be too bold...I mean if you wouldn’t mind...Oh dear…”
The dark lord chuckled again, arms drawn over his head so he could grasp the elaborate headboard. “Are you scared, my little lion? Do you need to tie me up before you’ll feel safe?”
He’d need to do much more than that to feel safe, but that wouldn’t be an option. Instead he nodded, trying to look bashful instead of mortified. Voldemort was fast, but tied up surely that would give Neville enough time to complete his mission.
“A deal then. I will let you tie up my hands, and you will thank me by riding my cock.”
The mortification won out, Neville’s face heating so rapidly he thought he would pass out. But he could hear Hermione’s voice reminding him of the mission and the stakes if he failed. Could he manage it? If Voldemort was tied up, if he was tired from an orgasm, surely Neville would have enough time to stab him with the poisoned wand.
He fumbled some while tying up Voldemort’s wrists, wincing when he expected a reprimand but only received a soft laugh. He tried to tune out the sound, would have rather been chastised that listen to this monster pretend to be just another man. By the time he had successfully tied Voldemort’s wrists, he realized he hadn’t looped it to anything. In a panic he hunted until he found a snake carved into the wood headboard in such a way he could attach the remaining bits of silk.
At least he had tried.
“Um...I’ll just...shall I…” He waved his hand awkwardly over Voldemort’s groin, earning another smug smirk.
“Prepare yourself for me.” Voldemort ordered. “I would assist but I am rather occupied at the moment.”
Slowly, slower than he should considering the situation, Neville removed the rest of his clothes until he was completely naked and straddling the Minister of Magic. Shaking off the rising hysteria Neville instead turned his panic towards anything that would serve as lubricant. Anything would work, as long as he didn’t have to call a house elf. He would actually die of shame if he had to do that.
Shockingly it was Voldemort who solved that problem, wandlessly and wordlessly casting a spell that made him feel loose and slick. He marveled for a moment, not wanting to know how the dark lord came to know that particular spell, before carefully reaching back. Neville hadn’t fucked himself, not on his fingers or on toys or even another cock. And he was naturally clumsy, doubly so in someone else’s body. So it was no wonder he both managed to miss and managed to slip onto Voldemort’s chest.
Eventually Neville managed an angle where he could fuck himself open, even while sprawled over Voldemort. He ended up nuzzled against Voldemort’s nipple, and on a whim he took the pale nub into his mouth. Below him came a groan he could hear and feel, something that made his stomach clench with nervous excitement.
“You are ready enough.” Voldemort demanded, as though he wasn’t the one tied up and at Neville’s mercy. Not that Neville was in any position to make demands himself.
Neville’s fingers emerged with a lewd pop, and before he could talk himself out of it he pulled Voldemort’s dick out of his no doubt expensive trousers. It was as pale as the rest of him, though it seemed as if the tip was turning red, flushed with arousal. And while Neville was no stranger to cock, he had lived in a boys’ dorm for years after all, he couldn’t help the small whimper brought on by its size.
“Go on, pet.”
The taunt, or was it an order, spurred Neville’s long dormant Gryffindor nerves and with a deep breath he sunk into the dark lord’s cock.
Neville’s breath was punched out of him as he was suddenly full, overwhelmed with a pressure unlike any he’d felt before. He didn’t bother holding back his whimpering, which evolved into a wanton moan as Voldemort began thrusting upwards. Even tied to his own headboard he took control. Neville would have fought back, would have pushed Voldemort’s pale chest in order to still those thrusts so he could set his own pace, if not for the fact that he was still just Neville Longbottom.
Even straddling the beautiful and deadly Minister, Neville had no control. It was like lightning shooting up and into him, making his brain frizzle with static. He bounced up and down, over and over until he legs were straining and he could barely remain upright.
And all the while the dark lord crooned. He watched with delight as he tore tears from the boy’s pale green eyes and wretched needy moans from the boy’s flushed lips. It didn’t take long for the little virgin to orgasm, ejaculating so hard it covered his own chest as well as Voldemort’s. The bliss didn’t last long, as Voldemort sought his own release in the oversensitive body.
He wasn’t kind to the body above him, hips snapping with an unsteady rhythm as he hunted his own pleasure. It took long enough that Neville’s dick had started to rise again, but eventually Voldemort roared his own release, and Neville knew if he hadn’t been bound the dark lord would have bitten a chunk out of his flesh.
Neville’s breath came in short puffs, his body aching in a way that was both painful and delicious, and all he wanted was to curl into the heavy damask sheets and sleep. But he couldn’t not when Voldemort was at his most vulnerable.
With no subtlety Neville pulled his wand from his discarded robe. Not his father’s, which had never adapted to his hand. Not even his own, which had been lost a few fights back when Fenrir Greyback’s wolves almost caught him on a supply run. No, this was Alice Longbottom’s wand, originally snapped by the Lestranges all those years ago but since rebuilt with a poisonous core.
But even post coital, the dark lord was faster.
Voldemort didn’t bother escaping from his bonds, instead looping his hands over Neville’s head so the cool silk dragged at the back of his neck. He pulled suddenly, enough for Neville to almost drop the wand, though he did manage to press it against Voldemort’s chest. Not enough momentum, but maybe if he could bring himself to cast the killing curse the poison would actually destroy the monster below him.
“Oh my little lion, did you really think you could fool me?”
“I’m not your little lion.” Neville hissed, trying to sound brave like Harry had been or stubborn like Ron still was. It sounded weak even to his own ears.
“You most certainly are, Neville Longbottom.”
He almost missed the last words for how loudly his heartbeat pounded in his ears. No, absolutely not. The dark lord wouldn’t...he couldn’t…
“I must say, it took so much courage for you to sneak into this gala. Playing to my preferences was a good decision, and it may have even worked. If only you had attended the ritual beforehand.”
“The ritual?” He hated how his voice cracked, hated how his hands shook, hated how damn pleased the bastard looked under him.
“Increased senses,” Voldemort teased, using the silk scarf to pull Neville closer so he could whisper into his ear. “True sight. I knew who you were the moment I saw you.”
A coldness spread through Neville, so numbing he almost didn’t notice that Voldemort’s cock was hardening inside him. But only almost.
His distressed cry earned a laugh and a sudden thrust, managing to hit his prostate so firmly Neville swore he saw stars. Before he could cast a spell, any spell, or before he could run, Voldemort flipped them over, pinning them both to the bed. One hand, still tied but not slowing him in anyway, caught Neville’s wrist, forcing the poisoned wand away.
“True sight really is a gift. Would you like to see the world as it truly is, my lion?”
Before he could roll away, or push up, or anything, Voldemort spat in his eyes like a viper spitting at a threat. Neville’s world turned a sickly black, a scream building in his lungs but refusing to escape even as Voldemort’s weight constricted around him. His free hand beat and pushed at Voldemort’s back, nails scratching and clawing.
All the while Voldemort laughed, until Neville blinked away enough of the spit, or whatever it really was, that he could see the man above him.
No, the monster above him.
The black ichor cleared enough that he could see Voldemort’s horrific face, paler than a corpse with eyes the color of spilled blood. His limbs were long and twisting, pinning Neville in place, his long fingers tipped with black claws that dug painfully into Neville’s skin.
His lips, what little there were, stretched open in a perversion of a smile and hot breath fell past actual fangs. His tongue emerged briefly and he could see it was split down the middle like any other snake. Ever so gently the tongue flickered against Neville’s cheek, licking at the mixture of tears and venom.
“Wha-what have you done to me?”
“A gift, my lion. Now, let me show you the true world.”
And soon Neville began to scream.
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078. Margaritas
read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/zi8UmFN
by aimmyarrowshigh
Margaritas. Butler brings the cocktails in two tall glasses on a silver tray.
Words: 100, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English
Series: Part 22 of 100 Drabble Tumblr Challenge: Fifteen Fifteen Fifteen, Part 71 of Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries Drabbles
Fandoms: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries (TV)
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Categories: Gen
Characters: Phryne Fisher, Elizabeth MacMillan
Relationships: Phryne Fisher & Elizabeth MacMillan
Additional Tags: Drabble, Canon Compliant, 1920s, Alcohol, Drinking, Is Phryne Friends With Al Capone? Perhaps
read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/zi8UmFN
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Death Among the Diamonds by Fliss Chester (A Cressida Fawcett Mystery #1)
The Book:
Everyone in 1920s London knows the Honourable Cressida Fawcett: fiercely independent (though never apart from her little pug Ruby), lover of martinis and interior designer extraordinaire. She’s solved many crimes of fashion… so how about murder?
Cressida Fawcett is heading to the English countryside for a weekend of cocktails and partying at her friend’s glamorous mansion, the location of a recent diamond heist. But just hours after her arrival, Cressida is woken by an almighty scream. Rushing to the landing, she looks down into the great hall to find a trembling maid standing next to the body of Harry, the friendly young chandelier cleaner.
Everyone believes Harry’s death was an accident. But as Cressida examines the opulent hall and the beautiful grounds, she thinks something darker is afoot. Why clean a chandelier in the early hours of the morning? And who overheard Harry boasting about coming into unexpected wealth? A small piece of torn silk found near the body has Cressida looking at the guests’ elegant clothes with fresh eyes…
The short-tempered Detective insists that she keeps her curious nose out of the investigation, but it’s Cressida who realises the stolen diamonds were hidden in the sparkling chandelier. Convinced there is a connection between the theft and the murder, the case takes a sinister turn when a guest is killed in his sleep after a brandy-fuelled night of cards. With everyone unable to leave, can Cressida’s sharp eye for detail catch the killer before another life is taken?
My Review:
A good start for a new historical cozy series: an entertaining novel that kept me guessing and turning pages.
I think there's a lot of potential in this series that mixes elements fo Wodehouse, Phryne Phisher, and Golden Age mystery.
Cressida is an interesting character, an independent and clever young woman who is part of the Bright Young Thing set and enjoy her single life. I love Ruby, her pug, a lovely pet character.
The mystery is solid and full of twists. It kept me guessing and i like the solution and how all the questions were answered.
Just a couple of note: there's a lot of descriptions and I think they were a bit too long and didn't help the flow of the story. The historical background is well researched but I would have appreciated some more references to WWI which heavily impacted Cressida generation.
Entertaining and compelling, can't wait to read the next story, recommended.
Many thanks to Bookouture and Netgalley for this ARC, all opinions are mine
The Author:
Fliss Chester lives in Surrey with her husband and writes historical cozy crime. When she is not killing people off in her 1940s whodunnits, she helps her husband, who is a wine merchant, run their business. Never far from a decent glass of something, Fliss also loves cooking (and writing up her favourite recipes on her blog), enjoying the beautiful Surrey and West Sussex countryside and having a good natter.
https://www.instagram.com/flisschester/
https://twitter.com/SocialWhirlGirl
Sign up to be the first to hear about new releases from Fliss Chester here: https://www.bookouture.com/fliss-chester
Buy Link:
Amazon: https://geni.us/B0B5LNRLRYsocial
Audio Links:
UK: zpr.io/5TH6WL7X6AsX
US: zpr.io/CHm3wmGbN8AW
Listen to a sample here:
https://soundcloud.com/bookouture/death-among-the-diamonds-by-fliss-chester-narrated-by-daphne-kouma
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Tag Game!
Thank you @abumperprize for the tag :D
3 ships:
Matt Murdock/Foggy Nelson (Daredevil): I started watching Daredevil for the first time right before it left Netflix, and basically have not stopped reading fics for these two since lol. I also like Matt/Foggy/Karen.
Phryne Fisher/Jack Robinson (MFMM): The only based het couple, what can I say?
Wolfgang Bogdanow/Kala Dandekar/Rajan Rasal (Sense8): I was recently reminded of how robbed we were of the slowburn these three deserved, please be respectful during my difficult mourning period.
First ever ship: Percy Jackson/Annabeth Chase. These two weren't my introduction to fandom, but they were my introduction to yelling "just kiss already!" at the page. Blueprint girlboss x malewife couple <333
Last song: Love Me More by Mitski was playing at the grocery store today.
Last film: Stardust (rewatch)
Currently reading: Up In The Old Hotel by Joseph Mitchell
Currently watching: Abbott Elementary & Outlander season 6
Currently consuming: Zebra cakes and cocktails. I am a very mature adult with a sophisticated palate.
Currently craving: Water
tagging: @a-halo-of-stars @captaincarriekathryncoffee @hellativity @ashjudephoenix @cipher-fresh @thachivsta & whoever else wants to answer!
#tag game#its so funny that literally none of the ships i mentioned are what people followed my blog for lmao#alcohol mention#food mention#personal log
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For the Gothic Terror prompts: Jack/Phryne with an act of divination
Have our flirtatious sleuths at an ill-advised séance.
*
“I find,” says Jack Robinson, in a voice too low to be overheard, “that the dead visit too often, even uninvited.”
Phryne steps closer to him, on the pretext of handing him his cocktail. “I know, Jack. But Aunt Prudence will do it.”
“Mm.”
“Yes, she should know better. And no,” she adds, “you didn’t say anything. But you have a very speaking countenance, Jack Robinson.”
The line of his jaw softens. “You’re the only one who’s ever said so, Miss Fisher.”
“Am I?”
“What are you two whispering about?”
Phryne raises her eyes to the heavens. “Coming, Aunt P.”
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Jack: What have you got there..?
Phryne: *hiding evidence* A cocktail.
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Love Potions and Sensuous Cocktails
Whether you are celebrating, whomever you are celebrating with, and it can always be a good friend or yourself, these Love Potions and Sensuous Cocktails are delectable concoctions and exciting tipples to sip in good company... Happy Valentine's Day!
Parisian Blonde
Pink Lady
Kir Royal à la Lavande
Mr. Butler’s Phryne
Rose Rickey
Pretty in Pink
Burning Passion Gin and Tonic
The Cécile
The Ava
Rosemary, June and Gin
Kir Royal à la Rose
The Villanelle
Ginger and Lime Whiskey
Bellini
Between the Sheets
#Recipes#Drinks#Drink#Drink recipes#Drink recipe#Love Potions and Sensuous Cocktails#Love Potions and Sensuous Cocktails Recipe List#Cocktails#Cocktail recipe#Cold Drink and Cocktail#Gin#Gin Cocktails#Whisky#Whisky Cocktails#Rum#Rum Cocktails#Vodka#Vodka Cocktails#Champagne#Prosecco#Cognac#Brandy#Celebratory Drinks#Celebratory Drink#Valentine's Day#Happy Valentine's Day#Recipe Box
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New Orleans Cocktail of the Month - Ramos Gin Fizz
Invented by New Orleans bartender and owner Henry C. Ramos in 1888, this exquisite combination of gin, citrus, dairy and egg white was a favorite of Louisiana's legendary (some would say, infamous) Governor Huey P. Long. The Governor loved it so much, it's said that he took his favorite bartender with him on a business trip to New York just so he could get his favorite drink. Understandable, since some say this is the most difficult cocktail to make, and definitely the most labor intensive. Each one takes up to 15 minutes of shaking.
After Prohibition, the Roosevelt Hotel acquired the rights to the original Ramos Gin Fizz, but you can get them at many finer establishments throughout the Big Easy. Try one when you're in town for Miss Fisher Con!
#miss fisher's murder mysteries#mfmm#miss fisher con#missfishercon#miss fisher and the crypt of tears#the adventuresses’ club of the americas#phryne fisher#ms fisher's modern murder mysteries#peregrine fisher#new orleans#nola#big easy#crescent city#new orleans cocktails#cocktail
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Happy birthday (month)! I would love an MFMM ficlet for "What is a man? A quiet between two bombardments" because it made me think of Jack Robinson. That said, he wouldn't have to be in the room; I am always a sucker for Phryne and Mac conversations, as well.
A/N: Thank you! 💚
39. What is a man? A quiet between two bombardments. (Phryne & Mac) (Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries) (oldshrewsburyian)
Dr. Macmillan watched over the rim of her glass while Phryne removed her wraps (into the care of Mr. Butler) and settled down into the chair opposite with her own drink (ably supplied by Mr. Butler). "And just where have you been?"
Phryne rolled her eyes at Mac's tone. "Mother-henning doesn't suit you," she retorted, with a tired grin.
"If you ask your oldest friend to drop by for a drink and some serious talk, and then you're two hours late, and then you come home looking utterly spent but not utterly shagged out – and yes, I can tell – then I reserve the right to ask." Mac raised her eyebrow. "So?"
"I was at the station. Jack and I were talking over the case we just closed. I just lost track of time, I'm afraid."
Mac raised her other eyebrow. "And yet you still don't look triumphant." She studied Phryne for a moment or two. "Bad case?" she asked finally.
"Bad reaction," Phryne admitted, and drank her cocktail quickly. "Jack was... talking me through it."
"Hm. Wouldn't have expected that."
"What?"
"You taking your troubles to a policeman. After all, that's why you invite me over at the end of a case -- to drink your good Scotch and listen to your woes."
"I've talked myself out for the night, Mac. I'm sorry I kept you waiting. But you did get the Scotch."
"Oh, I'm not complaining. So long as you're taking care of yourself, or being taken care of, as the case may be. And if Inspector Robinson's a quiet place between bombardments for you? I won't question it." Mac finally smiled. "A burden shared is a burden halved, after all. Or thirded, in this case."
#oldshrewsburyian#miss fisher's murder mysteries#mfmm#phryne fisher#elizabeth macmillan#dr. mac#april 2021 prompt fills#prompt and ye shall receive#prompt fic#prompt fill
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Miss Fisher Snippets (96)
In the book series, Mrs. Butler was the chef with incredible culinary skills. Since she was not written into the TV show, Mr. Butler got to wear the togue, in addition to the many other hats he was wearing – relationship counselor, cocktail mixologist, chemical weapon expert, ornithologist, etc. In S1E12 Murder in the Dark, Phryne tasked him to prepare the feast for the distinguished guests of Aunt P’s costume party, some even sailed all the way from England! This was when we learned that the multitalented Mr. Butler had attended the prestige Le Cordon Bleu hospitality and culinary school so was adequately qualified for such mission. Crisis averted.
According to Wikipedia, Le Cordon Bleu was first established in 1895 in Paris and did not open its first international branch until 1933 (in London). Since this episode was set in 1928, Mr. Butler must have traveled to Paris in order to receive the training. When did he make the trip? Who paid for his passage and tuitions? Whom had he served before employed by Miss Fisher? There were so many backstories we could cook up (pun intended) for our beloved mysterious Mr. B.
********************
p.s. Today is the Thanksgiving holiday in the U.S. For those who possess Mr. Butler’s incredible culinary skills look forward to the opportunity to showcase their signature dishes, usually involved a full turkey as the main course, in front of their friends and family. Even those whose skills are not up to scratch, like me, feel obligated to prepare a seasonal dish or two. Whether you are the former or the latter, I hope you have a warm and joyful celebration with your loved ones.
(Posted 24-Nov-2022)
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🌹
Soooo, I was reminded that I have a couple of MFMM ficlets that I wrote years ago and never got around to posting. So you get a whole little ficlet:
Erudite
/ˈɛrʊdʌɪt/
adjective
having or showing great knowledge or learning.
“Why do you do that?” Phryne asked, cocking her head to the side and regarding him over her cocktail.
Jack blinked. “Do what, exactly?”
“Your accent.”
“My…” he cast his mind back to the story he’d been telling, about the time he and Dan had decided to see how far they could go on their bicycles and forgot to turn around until the sun had set. His mother had nearly murdered them both when they had finally made their way home at midnight.
“Your accent. Every once in awhile you go…” she waved her hand vaguely.
“Working class?” Jack offered, lounging easily against the chaise.
She smirked. “Rather broader than your usual tones, yes. I noticed it at Queenscliff a few weeks ago too.”
“I’m from Richmond, Miss Fisher. I’m not entirely sure what else you would expect. I was not always the erudite and articulate detective-inspector you’ve come to enjoy haranguing.”
Her eyes gleamed as she leaned forward, clearly intrigued.
“Is that so?”
Jack nodded. “I learnt to drop the accent right quick when I went to grammar school--on a scholarship, miraculously, when I was eleven--but it’s never entirely gone. It tends to slip out when I’m feeling particularly relaxed.”
“Relaxed?” she asked with a predatory grin. “Clearly I’ve not been doing my job if you’re feeling relaxed.”
Jack gestured to the parlour where they sat.
“I have a delicious drink while I wait for a superb dinner cooked by someone else, a comfortable seat, and delightful company. What more could I ask for?”
He expected a salacious insinuation at his proclamation. May possibly have hoped to provoke one. But at his words her eyes grew fond and she smiled softly, a gaze of genuine affection. She shifted slightly beside him, her knee coming to rest against his thigh, and took another sip of her drink.
“When you put it like that, Jack, it really does sound rather pleasant,” she conceded with her usual grace. “But it takes more that to get the Collingwood out of me.
for every “🌹” received in my inbox i’ll post one random sentence of a random WIP i’m currently writing
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5 for phrack! 11 for Phryne & Mac! (if I may ask for two) <3
Anything for you, my love!
Here's "Things you didn't say at all" for Phrack:
There's a man between her thighs. That in itself is not unusual - she's been known to enjoy the odd flirt, the novelty of a fresh bedpartner, the thrill of bodies pressed and rocking. No, it's not the presence of the man that's noteworthy, but rather his identity.
This particular man is trim and sharp, golden-skinned and serious. He moves with skill and precision, loves with intensity, respects with with such liberal-mindedness that it would surely surprise him, were he to be confronted with the praise.
The scent of his skin is eerily familiar despite the fact that this is his first time in her bed. She nuzzles at his shoulder, his neck, the underside of his jaw, and smells her parlour, and paper, and bergamot-scented pomade, and her best single malt whisky, all rolled into one very noble man.
He always does the right thing - even though he'd claim 'not always' - but she's not quite sure how to label this recent madness. Taking her up on her impulsive offer - it seems like the complete opposite of how his practical nature would act - and yet, nothing feels more right.
He grunts against her ear, pulls her thigh closer to his body, twists his hips just so, and she thinks no more. There's only sensation, only the climb; she soars and falls, plummeting to her little death, breaking against the soft ground.
"Jack!" she gasps, her neck arching, thighs trembling. "Jack, I - "
I love you, I love you, I love you.
But the words stick in her throat, heavy and meaningful, so she kisses him instead, and holds him close to her breast as he spends inside her, their hearts thudding wildly and almost unanimously inside their pressed chests.
And later, as she drifts to sleep, he pulls her closer to his body, and rasps deeply in her ear.
"And I, Miss Fisher."
"Things you said when you were drunk" for Mac and Phryne (God, I love those two!):
She's greeted at the door by the lady of the house herself, face set in a blinding smile.
"Mac! I'm so glad you could make it! Whisky?"
Not one to turn down offered spirits - especially not the kind served at the Fisher residence - Elizabeth Macmillan follows inside, frowning slightly.
She's known Phryne most of her life, has always been privy to her joys and sorrows; she knows when something's off. And something is off with Phryne Fisher. Mac can see it in the manic way she flits around her own parlour, first in the quest for liquor, then in delivering it to its destination.
It takes five glasses of whisky and two of Mr Butler's delicious cocktails to coax the matter out of her.
"Ah thin' Jack might be in - in love with me," Phryne announces, speech slurred, drink no' eight sloshing dangerously in its tumblr. "An' - an' he doesn'a seem to like it much."
Well, fuck. No wonder the poor lass is so out of sorts.
Mac decides to aim for dryness and sarcasm, her two trusted friends.
"Really? How can you tell?" She asks, downing her own glass and instantly reaching for a refill - this discussion calls for serious reinforcements. "If the man were any more uptight, I'd be worried about his health."
This is not, strictly speaking, true, of course. She's seen enough of the man - heard enough of the man - to know that this is not the case. Even so, Phryne is her oldest and dearest friend, and if she can wring at least an echo of a smile out of her, or, if all else fails, a smidgen of indignation, then her work here is done.
But this turns out to be the wrong tactic.
Phryne slumps in her seat, even more drunkenly dejected than before.
"He's not uptight, Mac. He's...serious."
"Phryne," Mac sighs and places her glass on the small table. "Do you even want him to be in love with you? You never wanted it before."
In lieu of answering, Phryne somehow manages to shrug with her entire body and spills the contents of her tumbler all over the lovely upholstery.
And that's Mac's cue.
"Right," she says, rising to her feet and pulling Phryne with her. "Up you get, darling. A lie down is in order. I'll tell Mr Butler to get the powder ready. You'll definitely need it in the morning."
"He-he's ma' friend, Mac..."
The doctor sighs and pulls her patient closer to her.
"I know, sweetheart," she says, surprisingly kind. "I know."
She really hopes Jack Robinson is bloody worth the trouble.
***
She's greeted at the door by the lady of the house herself, face set in a blinding smile.
"Mac! Finally!"
Elizabeth Macmillan grins widely and pulls her oldest friend into a bone-crushing hug.
"Phryne Fisher- Aviatrix! As I live and breathe!" She exclaims. "It's good to have you back on Australian soil, all in one piece."
Phryne throws her head back and laughs, her tone throaty and free, and Mac's smile grows fonder. She missed this sound, missed this woman. God, it's good to have her back.
"Come in, I'll pour you a glass of Mr Butler's latest ingenious concoction!"
Inside, standing at the mantlepiece like a bloody fixture, Mac finds Jack Robinson, as buttoned-up as ever. He greets her amicably, shakes her hand, and she frowns slightly.
Something is...different - she can tell as much - but she can't quite put her finger on what it is.
It takes five glasses of whisky and two of Mr Butler's delicious cocktails to finally spot the difference.
It happens when the Inspector calls it a night, and rises to leave. Phryne sees him to the door and Mac - never one for subtlety - leans over in her seat to better hear their murmured goodbyes.
Their voices are soft, intimate; there's the rustle of clothes, some soft sighs, the slick sound of lips on lips.
Well, that should do it.
"So, this is new," Mac prompts when Phryne swims back into the parlour, practically floating on the fumes of alcohol and delirium. She dances all the way into an armchair, and slumps drunkenly over the armrest, her face flushed and happy.
"I love him, Mac!" she announces, speech slurred, drink no' eight sloshing dangerously in its tumblr. "And I like it very much."
Mac sighs good-naturedly, downs her own glass, and instantly reaches for a refill - this discussion calls for serious reinforcements.
"That's nice, darling," she says and raises her newly acquired drink in salute.
Phryne Fisher, in love. Well, seems like Jack Robinson was bloody worth the trouble, after all.
Things you said prompts
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