Rain, rain, rain, rain, boring. Very, very, very, very boring.

I'm going to go dress up the cat.


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They venerated Joan of Arc on account of how long it took her to burn. Her organs, quotes the record, resisted the fire. It took three roastings to break her down to ashes, leaving nothing left to worship. (Whatever its incarnation, the Church has never been keen on healthy competition in the mass market of belief.) What a pain it must've been to the smug souls of those devout cooks when someone discovered a jar of saintly dregs in the attic of a Parisian pharmacie.

Marlow dragged us to Chinon in '55 '35 '76 damn it to gawk at the blessed litter. It wasn't much of a collection: a charred rib, hunks of carbonized wood, a skinny shred of linen and a cat's femur. (What a stupid tradition, this burning of black cats with the targets. Could there ever be a more inexorable familiar than a cat?) I remember how the pitiful mess smelled of plaster and, more tellingly, of vanilla.

It was all fake, of course. No burnt tissue stinks of vanilla, the sweetness is reserved for decomposition. There was a black crust on the bones (Marlow wanted to scrape off a "sample" with my nails) and it'd take a priest of a fool to think pine resins had anything to do with Normandy at the saint's execution. The pile of scrap was likely nothing more holy than some fetid mummy recycled as a Dark Age stomachache remedy.

As for the miracle of her fireproof heart, one can only mourn and mock the blindness of old days. A butcher's lad or an adept fish wife would've been able to set them straight, as would a well-versed drunk; livers, brains, intestines, whatnot--they're all soaked. The same meat that is first to absorb whiskey and wine is the offal that's hardest to burn.

...

In hindsight, this is doing nothing to take my mind off the pain.

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All hail, Queen Penelope and her suck-tastic luck!

So apparently getting an ouch-y case of cramps (agh, boobs better be worth this) is enough to make some parental paranoid nuts think you've got weird-o/internal/whatever bruising from the parade that you barely even went to. Because of course if I say I'm okay I must be lying. Thank you, los Inquisitoros. Dr. Dad is just fishing for an excuse to stick me in an MIR again. (Going into those things is like being turned into a turtle. With its head up its butt.) Next thing you know, it's the doctor babble again and wham bam no thank you, ma'am, I'm missing school and starting my stunning high school career as a social waste case.

It's like they hate me or something.


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It hurts too much to sleep.

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I live!!!

..at least until M&D decide on what my punishment should be. Oops, did I say “punishment”? I meant pastime. Because obviously getting stuck in an explosion happened because I didn’t have anything better to do. Um, hello, reality? I’d like a parental refund kthxbaiby.

I told, told, told them I wasn’t actually at the parade, I was just close by. But nooo~ A couple of knee bruises and Major Mom is practically hiding all the shoes to make sure I never leave the house again.

Dad, is pretty much living at the hospital. :(((

Big bro has been ranting about social justice whatchamacallit; little bro has asked to keep the scabs when they peel off.

Bummer summer, trufax.


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The news reports have been predictable if dedicated. Groomed scriveners, the lot of them, but the coverage is easier to appreciate in one’s reduced circumstances. I spent the better part of the morning with the talking heads; results have been poor. Truly, the only observation of note came from a local ingénue’s comment on the elementals’ participation. The Naturals have their own agenda, I suppose, though it hardly seems one of self-preservation in this case. It’ll be interesting to see how long before someone proposes how well suited a mature Natural’s abilities are for destruction…

My own participation was ultimately more entertaining than harmful. Indeed, it was nearly enlightening. Apparently, the refurbished modern era of enlightenment is in fact a vampiric show and tell. Bolstering my case is the fact of having met two barefaced examples of recklessness in the same twelve hours. One opened a vein as if popping a Pepsi and the other does television. Both are keener interacting with the local teenage hoi polloi than their parents should be comfortable with. How does anybody in this town survive past the age of twenty? (How will I?)

The deflector charms are completely spoiled, there’s no saving them. Bugger. I liked the cardigan. Not to mention that replacing it will tax resources I haven’t to spare. (Similarly, a trip to the hospital wouldn’t be amiss with turmoil clouding the miserable halls. I’m in a mind to pick up some pills and treats for the future.)

The family’s anxiety remains an irritating encumbrance. The mother in particular seems committed to putting me in protective custody. How charming. Her reaction is perhaps apt considering the experience of my painful awakening. However, I cannot indulge her fretfulness. Measures must be taken.

( How to poison doubts at breakfast )

A list of spells/charms/etc that Gretel uses in game. Because it's not OCD if it's fictional. Right?

( Spells )


( Charms )


( Potions )

Wow.

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Well.

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I remember--insomuch as I remember anything lately--a month in 1917 when we were stuck, or lodged if one's being generous with the term, by a naval base. An ugly time, and a period I would've preferred to spend elsewhere but Marlow was in a mood to play soldiers with the Americans. (I had to play nurse - ridiculous.) But some entertainment did occur. One of the boys had a mother who was a very, very clever baker and a loyal believer in gingerbread. She mailed a pack every two weeks.

What a trick it was, that treat! Gingerless, molassessless, eggless, milkless gingerbread. Not a speck of spice or lick of butter anywhere in the mix. It was a marvel. And a stroke of luck for the little soldier boy; the warding charm pinned to his collar kept the bullets away better than rain fends off bees.

(Marlow accused me of owning a soft spot. But then he is was slow to to appreciate any genius that doesn't have a price tag or a movement.)

Two mugs of cheap brown sugar dissolved in a little black coffee with a spoonful of soda to help the mix. Four tablespoons of nut oleo (foul stuff, sometimes I almost miss it), two tablespoons of lard, a shake of salt, and one scant cup of hot coffee. Still black, of course. Pepper was added to taste. Then you took a cup of graham and three of wheat flour, and rolled it out one inch thick. The result tasted better than it had any right to.

War time recipes were about making do. People said what's necessary because they didn't want to say survival. Survival, in its pure form, is bitter. Caustic. It preserves the hardest parts of you, like salt keeps mutton, but leaches every ounce of sweetness in the process.

I wish I could remember. I wish I could sleep.

(...oh, to hell with this blue devil. I'm going to go make candy and see if I can make that Williams sod walk into traffic. The boy needs disciplining.)

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No sleep and no sleep, makes Penny something something. :(


[email to Étienne Rousseau]

Hey doctor!! I hope you're doing well. The sleep thing is going really really lousy. :((( Can I have some sedatives? Dad says you can fax the prescription to his home-office. Thank you!

-Penny

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Tiny brother has declared his intent to make an alien sci-fi monster movie. Bigger brother has declared he'll help him.

I'm declaring myself an only child.

Rainy days are freakishly mind numbing. They call for an ingenious cure--sea biscuits!

Beating dough is hard and boring and hard. I'm sorry, but running the stuff repeatedly through a hand-cranked pasta machine (why did Mom sell off the good catering junk?) is like paying someone to punch you in the arm.

Shoving the stuff in a strong bag and repeatedly driving a Volvo over it? Easier and faster and easier. A Penny worth of genius, pleaseandthankyou.

In other news: banned from using Mom's car for a week.

Also, what's this Ozzy thing?


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Bugger.

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Someone has the weirdest Ebay habits. And, um, the wrong address? 'Cause what am I supposed to do with an old bucket? Seriously.


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Somebody is playing games.

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Colin and I went to the debate last night. It was--interesting? Think-y? Combustible? I figured Colin would spend the whole night with his arm in the air but he was just kind of...quiet. His mouth kept pinching over his teeth or something, and sometimes he'd scribble in that damn notebook. He didn't actually ask a single question. Which is ridiculously un-Colin. Maybe he's allergic to this place?

Of course, that didn't stop him from grilling me afterward. It was "do you think they were lying?" and "punishment shouldn't be the point, right" and "one-sided arrangements are a prejudice" all the freakin' way home. Blah, blah, blabbity blah. What, like I'm Barbara Walters now? I just wanted to see some vampires. He's going to be muttering about this for a week.

And this morning the paper came and yeeeeeeeah. Mom put the whole house on nuclear alert. It's amazing how loud someone can not talk about something.


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There should be a word, a very specific, iron word, for being the thing your mother thinks worst.

The paper lists two children. Babies. One might as well gift wrap the answer and attach a bow, it couldn't be more obvious. But the number...that bothers. It could have been a molting pair. A parent teaching a youngster, maybe. Think long enough and one might accept two lamia syncing their cycles that closely. Fate knows, Marlow and I had stranger dates.

But.

No creature would survive to adulthood with a habit of leaving such a mess accidentally; the world is not that generous to carelessness, let alone naked stupidity. This was a show. Somebody playing with their food.

Funny, what memories come to mind.

I remember Bonaparte. (Why do they make him so short now? He was only average.) I talked about pearls with his wife at one party and danced with the man himself at another. Marlow found his accent terrible. (It was.) Overall he was a man to watch with, not respect. But one statement he made has never faded: "It is better to eat than be eaten."

I've killed. I've slaughtered and poisoned and quartered and filled a stew pot with the results. I know how long it takes for a body wake up and I know how much air a coffin holds and I know how to tell when the screaming stops. I know how much water a child's lungs can keep before spilling. I know how ropes scrape necks. I know what pattern a whipping makes. I know how bones fragment, how the shards becomes shrapnel. I know how backs crack in electrocution. I've done enough to damn a priest with a handshake.

But I never made a fucking show of it.

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Snail butter. Trickier than expected (even without the snails.)

Oh, wow. Flowers? Seriously? That is so nice.

Dad got a little weird about it and Colin did his paranoid Dork Vader act, but Mom said I could keep them. (Go, Mom!) My room is now zesty with color. Awesome? Awesome!

Hope the cat doesn't eat them.

Mystery Giver, I really, really hope for the chance to thank you in person!


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Considering burning the bunch on arrival but was intercepted by Colin. That boy needs to be back in school. Soon.

Submerged one of each in vinegar, honey, and ice water for inspection. Forgot how long it takes to work with honey especially as modern products are a poxy lot. The bottles are chocked with impurities and adulterants. The vinegar in particular is injurious rubbish.

Didn't dare to use blood. Wanted to.

Mustn't.

Bollocks.

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Who wants to live forever?