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The Q

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“At time I feel my body has betrayed the girl I was, growing past the lithe limbs hewn in independence. We are to be fit for the purposes of adulthood, I know this. Childhood anticipations are traded with the shouldering of heavier things. But these days, these stones-tossed-in-tall-grass-days, have stretched my muscles, recalled past forms, and I am remembering how it is to feel, to follow the instincts of something young yet ancient. To step outside the province of maturity and marvel.”

Growing Up
Book:The Unselected Journals of Emma M. Lion: Vol. 8
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“Do you play?” Quincy jerked her eyes away from the instrument to find Lord Arch watching her, his mouth drawn in a very familiar straight line. “Only for myself, now that Ezekiel is dead,” she answered truthfully. “How delightful,” he said, smiling, his handsome face giving way to the refined wrinkles of his age. “Why don’t you play for yourself now, and I’ll just listen?”

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“The station was filling with more movement and noise and light, as the morning sun began to bounce and rattle off the brass and glass of the building. Quincy pushed through the crowd, her eyes towards the ground, her feet guiding her out of the station. She only lifted her head when she came out onto the sidewalk. And there, before her, a familiar figure was waiting, standing with a paper in one hand, watching the flow of traffic. He saw her and waved in silence, somehow knowing it wasn’t a morning for many words. “Did Fisher tell you to come?” Quincy said, her voice sounding so unlike itself—sounding yearning. “No,” Arch replied. Then he shook his head as confirmation, as if it were an important truth she needed to know two ways. “But I knew this was his train.” “You missed him.” “I didn’t come for him. I came for you.”

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“Forgetting Arch, forgetting tailors and backstreets and cats, Quincy lost herself in the magnificent architecture built to house even more magnificent machines. The train Quincy loved: its perfection of movement and speed and sound; its possibility and potential; its ability to efficiently transport the masses. It was here that Quincy always found the gears of her own mind worked loose, set back in place.”

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“Quincy didn’t look away from Arch’s face, and she felt something burn in her chest, the same overwhelmingly fierce pride she had felt when looking at a perfectly inked Q sheet or an expansion report that exceeded even her high expectations. “You will never lose your passion for truth,” Quincy promised. Arch held his breath a moment, his eyes searching hers. “You say that so confidently.” “You shake with it, Arch,” Quincy said, lifting a shoulder. “I suppose it’s one of your greater virtues.”

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“Quincy ducked through a small alleyway between buildings and worked her confident way through the backstreets. The route was abundantly full of refuse bins, forgotten crates, and various laundry, hanging from back windows. Several cats, the local monarchy that Qunicy had long been acquainted with, were granting them passage while sitting atop the maze of half-broken fences. Quincy saluted a black female—the reigning queen—and passed through a slender passage between two buildings, leading them out onto Fair Street and its adjoining park in a manner of minutes.”

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“If I owned a volume, I would beg you to print ten thousand copies on your presses and distribute them in the streets of every city in Europe.” “You’d have to show me a way to make a profit from it first,” Quincy responded evenly. “Arch tilted his head and raised an eyebrow, returning to his book as he answered, “I would build an argument so enticing and passionate you couldn’t deny me.”

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“After some time, Fisher said, “Per aspera ad astra.” Quincy turned towards him. “What’s that?” “Latin. It means to the stars through difficulties.” By natural extension of the conversation, she looked up, viewing the faint points of light fighting down through a soft haze. “Does anyone make it, Fisher? To the stars?” “I believe we have, Quince. We’ve seen the worst but known the best.”

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“Arch leaned back into his chair, but he was entertaining a smile. “There are few things more tedious than a friend who will not graciously receive.” Quincy could have explained that nine years of poverty might have something to do with it, but instead she just replied, “You must find me maddening, then.” Arch’s mouth twitched. “You, ma chérie, are something else entirely.”

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“His touch felt like coming back, and Quincy realized she had been waiting for it. When he pulled away, both of his hands now on the sides of her face, his eyes searching hers for answers, Quincy nodded then wrapped her arms around him. She pressed her face to his chest, and his response was to gather her to him, saying something she couldn't her. And there it was, the heartbeat she had heard the night of the Fothergils' ball, pulsing again in the shell of her ear. Quincy closed her eyes from relief. It gave her the same comfort the sound of the press gave her. It was a familiar machine.”

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“I'm going to ask a rather odd question," said Islington. "It is not very like me to give credit to such things, however -" and he made a motion with his fingers that tied the four of us together. "What do you make of this?" He was right about there being something, what I had sensed at dinner a few weeks back. Remembering the very thoughts I had after our dinner weeks ago, I glanced from face to face. Pierce shrugged. Islington waited. It was Hawkes who gave voice. “Alchemy.” I shivered. That mythical pursuit that turns disparate elements to gold. None of us questioned the veracity of his statement. We stood in the dark, feeling that something beyond the ordinary was working on our behalf. "Alchemy," murmured Islington. Pierce added nothing, but the lights of the Cleopatra were bright enough to show a curious smile. They looked towards me. "So heaven has thrown me in with you lot?" Islington said he wasn't certain my coming into his life was the work of heaven, Pierce made some comment under his breath as to weather it be heaven or fate, and Hawkes, well, he simply lifted an eyebrow and said "Good night all."" ― Beth Brower, The Unselected Journals of Emma M. Lion: Vol. 4”

FriendshipAlchemy
Book:The Unselected Journals of Emma M. Lion, vol. 7
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