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Authors: Katie MacAlister
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froze, including Nikola. The odd side of his mind noticed that Io’s declaration had, at least, had the benefit of killing his erection, but that wasn’t really important.
“Who are you, how did you meet my children, and how do you know about—” He stopped, unwilling to speak in front of the superstitious servants. He’d carried his secret close to his breast, not even allowing his valet to know the truth about Benedikt and Imogen, or how the curse had come to be. Other than his children, only two others knew the truth. He eyed the woman again. Had one of his half brothers spoken to her about him?
It was all very much a puzzle, and along with mysterious women, he disliked puzzles intensely.
The Incredible Adventures of Iolanthe Tennyson
July 12
If someone finds this journal someday and says to herself, “Holy jumping cats, whoever wrote this seriously needed to have some penmanship lessons,” please note that I’m writing with a quill. A quill . One from a bird. Goose, I think, or something big like that. Regardless, it’s really, really hard to write with a quill without leaving big ole blotches of ink everywhere, not to mention ripping up the paper, and just trying to get letters formed so they’re actually readable.
Man, things have gotten so weird, I’m actually ranting about a feather.
But I promised I was going to do this properly, and I am.
Right after I woke up in some strange dude’s place (and when I say “strange dude,” I don’t just mean someone I didn’t know—Nikola was a very odd man, what with his demands that I tell him about my boyfriends, and then getting bent out of shape when I did so, and some strange equation that he kept yammering on about), I knew immediately something seriously wrong was going on.
For one, I couldn’t remember a damned thing about how I had ended up in the room.
For another, and I’m totally at a loss how this could even be, I seemed to have woken up in some ultraconservative cult, kind of like Amish people who insisted on living just as if they were three hundred years in the past.
And lastly, the strange dude appeared to be under the impression that I was a hooker. Me! And Imogen was a part of it. “Look,” I said to Imogen’s father, who more closely resembled an older brother than a father, but it was clear there was some sort of weird genetic thing going on with that family.
You could say that.
“Look, I’m not a ho.” I stopped, frowning at the voice in my head. I’ve never been one to talk to myself, and I didn’t want to start. “And I’m not exactly sure what I’m doing here, but I really do think it’s time I go back to town. Does someone have a phone I could use? I seem to have lost mine.”
Everyone, every single person from the effeminate guy in some sort of Georgian costume with a big pink wig to the mega-conservative short, round lady who kept calling for the others to do heinous things to me, stared just as if I’d said something exceptional.
“What, you guys don’t have any technology here?” I glanced around the room. There was a fire in a fireplace set in the wall opposite the bed, and lots and lots of candles all over the room. It was a bit of a fire hazard, to be honest, and I wondered what sort of sprinkler system they had in place just in case one of those candles tipped over. “None whatsoever? Even the Amish folks can have cell phones if they keep them in a special place.”
“She’s speaking in tongues!” the crazy round lady exclaimed, pointing at me with one hand while clutching the tall, willowy Imogen with the other. “She is the devil’s plaything and must be destroyed!”
“I am no one’s plaything, and nice manners abroad or not, you’re really starting to work my nerves, lady,” I told her, giving her a gimlet eye. “I wouldn’t dream of telling you people how to run your cult or religion or whatever it is that you’re doing here, but I am not a doormat, and I will not let you walk
“Who are you, how did you meet my children, and how do you know about—” He stopped, unwilling to speak in front of the superstitious servants. He’d carried his secret close to his breast, not even allowing his valet to know the truth about Benedikt and Imogen, or how the curse had come to be. Other than his children, only two others knew the truth. He eyed the woman again. Had one of his half brothers spoken to her about him?
It was all very much a puzzle, and along with mysterious women, he disliked puzzles intensely.
The Incredible Adventures of Iolanthe Tennyson
July 12
If someone finds this journal someday and says to herself, “Holy jumping cats, whoever wrote this seriously needed to have some penmanship lessons,” please note that I’m writing with a quill. A quill . One from a bird. Goose, I think, or something big like that. Regardless, it’s really, really hard to write with a quill without leaving big ole blotches of ink everywhere, not to mention ripping up the paper, and just trying to get letters formed so they’re actually readable.
Man, things have gotten so weird, I’m actually ranting about a feather.
But I promised I was going to do this properly, and I am.
Right after I woke up in some strange dude’s place (and when I say “strange dude,” I don’t just mean someone I didn’t know—Nikola was a very odd man, what with his demands that I tell him about my boyfriends, and then getting bent out of shape when I did so, and some strange equation that he kept yammering on about), I knew immediately something seriously wrong was going on.
For one, I couldn’t remember a damned thing about how I had ended up in the room.
For another, and I’m totally at a loss how this could even be, I seemed to have woken up in some ultraconservative cult, kind of like Amish people who insisted on living just as if they were three hundred years in the past.
And lastly, the strange dude appeared to be under the impression that I was a hooker. Me! And Imogen was a part of it. “Look,” I said to Imogen’s father, who more closely resembled an older brother than a father, but it was clear there was some sort of weird genetic thing going on with that family.
You could say that.
“Look, I’m not a ho.” I stopped, frowning at the voice in my head. I’ve never been one to talk to myself, and I didn’t want to start. “And I’m not exactly sure what I’m doing here, but I really do think it’s time I go back to town. Does someone have a phone I could use? I seem to have lost mine.”
Everyone, every single person from the effeminate guy in some sort of Georgian costume with a big pink wig to the mega-conservative short, round lady who kept calling for the others to do heinous things to me, stared just as if I’d said something exceptional.
“What, you guys don’t have any technology here?” I glanced around the room. There was a fire in a fireplace set in the wall opposite the bed, and lots and lots of candles all over the room. It was a bit of a fire hazard, to be honest, and I wondered what sort of sprinkler system they had in place just in case one of those candles tipped over. “None whatsoever? Even the Amish folks can have cell phones if they keep them in a special place.”
“She’s speaking in tongues!” the crazy round lady exclaimed, pointing at me with one hand while clutching the tall, willowy Imogen with the other. “She is the devil’s plaything and must be destroyed!”
“I am no one’s plaything, and nice manners abroad or not, you’re really starting to work my nerves, lady,” I told her, giving her a gimlet eye. “I wouldn’t dream of telling you people how to run your cult or religion or whatever it is that you’re doing here, but I am not a doormat, and I will not let you walk
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