A familiar fox arrives, the rose behind its left ear bobbing as it bows its head to you, then takes a missive from the bag at its side.

You take the letter, and begin to read...

In personal news...

Lovely seasonal weather we've been having 'round about my place. Tornadoes and such. Much rain, contrasting with heat waves. Tornadoes also bring power-outs... Oh, the joys of the Midwest. Surprisingly, I wouldn't trade it, though.

Also, I have an absurd urge to bake like a lunatic despite the weather. I have managed to keep it fairly under control thus far, though.

What I’ve Been Reading:

​The Quest of the Fair Unknown, by Gerald Morris, is a pretty fun installment in the Squire's Tales series. I've been reading these in a pretty disconnected order, I'm afraid, but they seem to be fairly independent so I'm not too worried about it. All in all, this one was really sweet in some parts and hilarious in others. The forest full of 'holy' hermits are a hoot. There's really only one in there who seems to be worth his salt as a holy man, which is pretty accurate for people who run around CLAIMING holiness.

Some of the characters view religion poorly (as in, the religion itself is what saves them, or that religion is worth nothing; BOTH ends of the spectrum get their day...), which can be irritating, but I believe it was meant as a reflection of the times and less of the author's personal commentary getting crammed in there.

I also read Sons of Day and Night by Mariposa Aristeo (a retelling of The Prince and the Pauper). I thought it was a bit slow to get started, at least for one of the two characters (I think it may have been better served as half of a really chunky book but that is merely my opinion), but I liked the story a good deal once it got going, and the worldbuilding (or 'magic system', or what have you) was really cool. I was also able to be involved in the cover reveal for the sequel this month... and I DO like these covers.

Some Funny Stuff:

Snippets/Stories to Share:

This space was occupied, for some time, by a series of stories based on Havok Magazine's themes of the month. Last year, they had a Multiversal theme, which meant that the only thing in common amongst all the stories was a single character. They didn't have to be a major character in the story or anything... they just had to be there.

This year at Havok, the annual theme is Encore! Each month, they'll review one past season and accept new submissions for those old stories. Season Two, Stories that Sing, was one I really wanted to participate in... but found out about far too late. So, I've taken the liberty of summing it up for you: Stories that Sing was all stories based on songs. So I'll probably be doing stories like that All. Year. Long. The title of the song is clickable to the song the story's based on. I don't listen to songs with language in them, that I know of, and I'll search for clean versions if for some reason I've never understood the lyrics and have been by accident.

I'm sorry in advance, but also... not that sorry. If you have suggestions for songs, email me back and you might get to see one you love!

And now, for your perusal: Gloria.

I lean back against the pillow, head aching. The migraines have become more frequent, and I find myself wishing that I wasn’t the chair for the annual Flora Gala after all. Flowers are my passion, but the red tape involved in this enterprise is enough that I’m left with little doubt as to where my migraines are coming from. Everything will be worth it if I can just arrange things smoothly, but I don’t know that I can take this much longer.

I press my hands to my eyes, and wish that all the light, all the noise, all the EVERYTHING would just… cease. For a little while. My bedroom’s quiet, and fairly dark— I know this. But it feels like the cracks of light that make their way in ‘round the curtains and under the door are a spotlight each, boring into my skull.

I turn over, wrapping the blanket over my head with a groan, which I regret when I hear it magnified to several times its volume. That’s the other problem with my head. Though there’s nothing in the room but me, not even a fan running to keep things cooler, the whispering begins again, rising to shouts inside my head and fading away in waves with the pain.

“Morning Glory?”

“Agent Morning Glory!”

I’d think it funnier if my stomach didn’t join in on the game. It lurches with panic and nausea when those voices start, calling for someone with such insistence that I want to tell them to shut up already. I don’t know any Agent Morning Glory.

It sounds silly; at first, it was a fragment of a dream induced by the pain— a tinny voice through a small flip phone on my bedside table, calling for someone, before the phone’s swept up by my fiancé and tossed out the window, as easily as he would toss another log on the fire.

“What was that?” I’d ask, and he’d shrug. “Wrong number.”

But I found the voices harder and harder to ignore as they increased in volume and frequency, bleeding from my restless sleep to my waking hours. What would happen once or twice during my throbbing pain has become a noise I can’t shut out, pulsing in my head and body deeper than my heartbeat.

The headaches were bad enough without thinking I’m going crazy on top of it, but right now… I’d rather jump off my balcony than endure another minute.

I half-sit up, considering it for a minute.

No more paperwork. No more pain.

Then I realize exactly what I’m thinking, and flop back on the bed with a groan. I need help.

***

“Are you sure?” My intended, Paul, leans across the table and pats my hand. “You don’t have to continue chairing it, Gloria, even with the help. There’s always next year, you know; you’re young enough, they’ll be overjoyed you did this much your first year without shirking it.”

I shake my head, grateful for the large-brimmed hat against the summer sun. “A VanBuren never backs down from a commitment, you know that.”

“So it’s your pride driving you, now,” he chuckles, taking a sip of his coffee.

It’s not just that; I’ve wanted to do this for so long… there’s almost a need to finish it, on its own account. “I just need to find someone to help me. Don’t suppose you’re up for it?”

“I’m rubbish at flowers, you know that.”

“It wouldn’t even be the flowers,” I protest. “Just make a few calls here and there— please, Paul?”

He gives a long, weary sigh. “You know I’m in training for the regatta.”

I sit back in my seat, holding my cup in both hands. “...Yes.”

“I’m sure to win this year, if I can keep up my current regimen,” he continues brightly, as if the matter’s settled. “Wouldn’t that silvery cup look appealing over the fireplace when we move to that little place near the shore?”

“We still haven’t found one yet,” I remind him gently, pushing aside my disappointment for the moment. I can find someone later, surely.

“But I can dream about time with my bride-to-be,” he says, eyes twinkling over the cup, and the rest of our stolen hour slips away with chatter about the beach house we’ll find and make our very own.

***

“Gloria,” Vivian Bouckett says this afternoon, at another committee meeting, “Don’t think I haven’t noticed it’s a lot.”

I hold my tongue as my head throbs. She’s not saying it out of spite, and she very well may be giving me what I wanted not two hours earlier. “It has been— my migraines are telling me so.”

“But you’re such a dear to be working hard regardless,” she says. “So I’ve been looking out for someone to help you, and I think I’ve found the very one.” She gestures to someone behind me and I turn to see a man, young of features but with greying temples, in a nice grey suit. “He’s very organized.”

His face looks vaguely familiar, but I can’t place it.

“Gloria, meet Templeton Mirtch. A friend of my nephew, and a whiz at keeping everything running like a top.”

Templeton nods, and extends a hand. I stare at him stupidly for a minute, then take his hand mechanically.

My head gives another painful throb, and I put my other hand up to my temple to try and alleviate some of the pain before it becomes truly unbearable.

“Comes of being mature before my time, I suppose,” he says, gesturing with his free hand towards the hair.

His voice. I look up at him, startled. I’d swear I heard it before.

“Are you alright?” His brow furrows in concern.

“I… I’ve been having migraines,” I babble. “Just stress-related. Needing the help more than I thought, I suppose.”

He nods, and I could swear he’s reconsidering volunteering already. I bite the inside of my cheek. I need the help, and if I’m going to be a slave to my pain as it is, I can’t afford to drive him off.

I force a smile, trying my hardest to be diplomatic, when my head screams to go find the nearest dark room and curl up, now. “I’d greatly appreciate any help you can offer.”

The uncertainty on his face fades, and he answers my smile with one of his own. “Of course. But I’ll reach out later when you’re in a little less pain?”

I nod gratefully, and dart out of the meeting, sliding into the backseat of my car and rubbing at my head, biting back cries of pain as my driver takes me home wordlessly.

I remember, then, where I’ve heard Templeton’s voice.

Agent Morning Glory!

I’d swear he was one of the Voices. And that thought unsettles me all the way home. When I arrive there, I stumble back to my room, and fall into bed, more grateful than ever for the solace sleep provides.

***

I wake to the phone ringing. I glance at the clock, and note with a repressed sigh that I’ve slept away four whole hours. At least my headache, for the moment, is gone. I take a deep breath and pick up the line. “Hello?”

“Miss Gloria? It’s Templeton Mirtch.”

I fiddle with the phone’s cord. “Thank you for calling back. I could really use a hand with balancing some of the menu choices.”

“Would you like to talk over the line, or in-person?”

His voice is still eerily reminiscent of one from my dreams, but once there’s no headache involved, it’s oddly comforting on the other side of the phone.

“Over-the-line, for now?”

“Very good, then. Which catering service have you worked with? Some of them are willing to work in a little extra something if you butter them up the right way…”

***

Templeton Mirtch is a godsend. Things all fall into place beneath his touch, and the things I found so frustrating are tamed, or even pleasant, when he’s involved. I whisper thanks to Vivian at the next committee meeting, and she beams.

In a busy week of planning, Paul calls once or twice to invite me to lunch, but now that we’re finally making headway, I politely decline. “My help and I are working straight through today and tomorrow,” I say, and he acquiesces, his heavy sigh through the phone prompting a laugh. “I promise we’ll get dinner at La Roche this Friday to make up for it. I know it’s your favorite.”

“I’d like nothing better,” he purrs. “I’ll talk to you again soon, then.”

I hang up the phone and get back to Templeton, who presents an argument for keeping the hydrangeas on the south end, and I agree. Then it’s on to a follow-up with the caterers…

My headaches are still coming more often than I’d like, but there’s nothing that could make it better right now; I can still be involved, and things are looking up.

“You look happier than you have in a while,” Paul says over his glass of wine as we look out into the garden at LaRoche’s. “Relishing the idea of watching me win on Tuesday?”

I laugh. “Yes, but no. Remember when I asked you to help me with the Flora Gala stuff?”

He nods, a crease appearing between his eyes. “Please tell me this week was the last of it, and you’ve finally dropped it, like I suggested.”

“No; but I have a capable helper, so it’s not nearly as stressful.”

“Oh, well.” His face flickers through several expressions, finally settling on a pleasant one. “All’s well that ends well, I suppose.”

“He’s really efficient,” I say, after a sip of my Moscato. “We’re nearly done with everything, with a whole week to spare.”

“He?” Paul sets down his glass, and shoots me a look.

“He’s Vivian’s nephew’s friend,” I wave a hand to dismiss his worry. “Templeton something-or-other. Really helpful.”

“So you’ve been putting your fiancé off, spending time with another man?”

“It’s not like that, Paul.” I frown over at him as the waiter refills his glass, and slips away again.

“Maybe not, but talk will get around.” Is he jealous? “It’s not unreasonable for you to mention that little detail before you spend time cloistered off with some guy Vivian set you up with.”

“Vivian wouldn’t do anything untoward, Paul. She’s eighty-three. I think you’re overreacting a little.”

“Oh, so now I’m overreacting?”

My head throbs, and I grip my napkin under the table. “Paul, I wanted to spend time with you tonight. Do something nice. That’s why I set this up.”

“If you really wanted to spend time with me, you should drop the gala. Come spend a few days with me before the regatta.” He reaches out to take my hand. “Maybe… maybe you could spend the night tonight.”

“Paul, you know how I feel about that.” We’d discussed it, back when we started seeing each other. “My standards haven’t changed.”

“Or is it that your ‘helper’ rates higher than I do?” His voice has gained a hard edge that I don’t like, and he downs his glass in a single gulp and refills it himself.

“That’s not fair, Paul.” I grip the napkin still tighter. “It has nothing to do with who he is, or who you are. I’m not changing for anyone.

“He’s done nothing but help me with loads of paperwork.” My headache grows as a wave of anger swells in my gut. “May I remind you, I gave you the opportunity to join me, doing the glorious and romantic task drowning in paperwork, and you turned me down.”

“It’s a flower festival, Gloria. Ridiculous.”

“My mother used to help run it. I’ve wanted to do it for years, Paul. You’ve always known that. Why is it upsetting now?”

“You just want to prove yourself to your dead mother, and show off since you have a senator attending this year. Have to upstage me. But I’m not playing second fiddle. I have better things to do. I think I’m done, here.” He jerks to his feet, throws down his napkin, and crosses his arms. “If you change your mind, fine. But if you’re going to insist on being stubborn about this, I’ll be enjoying my race with or without you. There are plenty of other young women who’d give anything to be wearing that ring.” He jabs his hand at the solitaire he gave me, and as I stare at him, stupefied, he snorts. “In fact, there’s plenty who haven’t stopped badgering me since you started wearing it. Maybe they’re right and I’m making the wrong choice, here.”

“Paul!” I get up, but he turns on his heel. “Think about it, Gloria.”

The anger swells, and I wrest the ring from my finger, and put it on the table.

“Don’t bother leaving.” I dig in my purse, leave a card for the waiter. “I know this is your favorite place. You can bring the next girl here, and give her the ring. Don’t bother trying to return the card, either. I’ll be canceling it in an hour.”

He half-turns, but I’m already stepping through the French doors, inside and between the tables as quickly as I can before my vision is completely obscured with tears. I get out the front door, down the walk, and hesitate as the busboy scuttles off to find my driver.

I struggle to keep my sobs contained as I stand in the lamplight, unpursued and alone.

The driver brings my car, I get inside, and lay on the seat, head roaring.

“Home,” I croak, and slip into oblivion as voices call

Agent Morning Glory?

***

I arrive at the cafe late, head still achy, but determined not to be at the house lest Paul should call… though I know he won’t. I should’ve seen before now that he was that selfish. I may have been selfish with all this, but I would never have dreamed of accusing him and his friends of anything untoward. How could I have been so stupid?

“You look like you need to sleep, more than to figure out a seating arrangement,” Templeton says, pulling out my chair. “Are you sure you don’t want to call it a day and let me handle it?”

I nod miserably, and take a shaky sip of the chai he ordered me. “I’ve gotta keep going on this. I’m not backing out now.” Especially because of what I’ve given up to accomplish this. There’s no way I can let it go, now.

Templeton looks at me for a long moment, then finally nods his agreement. As we discuss this person and that for seating, my mind keeps straying back to Paul. To the whole mess. To what I’ve escaped, and what I’ll miss.

“...And Fr. Galvin next to the Senator here.” Templeton taps the paper with his pencil, and starts to mark the chart.

I frown at it. “No. Fr. Galvin should be seated with the Sisters of Mercy. They’ll get along well.”

“I think it would be better if we put him by the Senator. The man could use a glimpse of holiness once in awhile.” He gives a half-smile, and continues his notation.

“It would be better if we put Director Smythe by the Senator, since he’s officially running the Gala.” I grip my cup a little tighter as my headache increases.

Morning Glory…

“I’m sure he could use a little humility. We could put him by the Sisters.”

I look up at him, massaging my temple. “If we do that, he’ll have my head.”

“No, he won’t. I’ll make sure of it.”

I can’t even have this, to fail or succeed on my own?

“Fine.” I stand, and gather my bag.

“Gloria?”

Throw a tip on the table.

“Wait—”

Turn on my heel and stalk off, tears filling my eyes as my skull pounds.

I get outside, and the sun seems a thousand times brighter than I remember. I actually stop in the doorway, swaying on my feet with the pain.

A hand grabs my shoulder, and I flinch, jerking away as the whispering voices rise to a roar that blocks out whatever Templeton says.

Agent Morning Glory.

Agent Morning Glory!

Gloria, Gloria!

“I don’t know any Agent Morning Glory,” I moan. “Just stop. Please.” I sag under the weight of all the pain, all the noise, and I realize that I’m now off my feet, in someone’s arms.

“Hang on,” Templeton’s voice cuts in amidst the noise. “Just hang on.” His grip adjusts, careful but firm.

Everything is too much— too much light, too much noise! —and I curl tighter to try and shut out the roar that sets my body shaking. With every heartbeat, voices join in, screaming for Agent Morning Glory.

I let out a whimper as he lets me down, and a car door closes, like a gunshot near my head.

“Hang on,” he says again, and as another door closes and the sound reverberates, I lose the battle to the dark.

***

I don’t know how late it is when I wake in an unfamiliar room; chipped green paint on the walls and the muffled sound of traffic put me in mind of a not-so-great hotel. But it’s clean, and I’m alone. I blink blearily, trying to remember what I’m doing here, when Templeton enters the room and freezes at the sight of me sitting up.

“How’s your head?” he asks cautiously, sitting in a chair near the bed I’m in.

I watch him warily. “Better enough. Where am I?”

“One of my properties,” he says, eyes running over my face, like he’s looking for an answer written there. “Do you remember what happened?”

It slowly floats to the surface of my fogged brain as I stare back at him, glad for the silence in my head. “We met to discuss seating… and I had a really bad attack.”

He nods. “I didn’t think you’d do so well going all the way back to your place. So I brought you here. It’s only a few minutes from the cafe.”

I glance at the door, and he sighs. “You’re not captive here, Gloria. You can go if you want. I can call your driver if you’d rather wait, or I can drive you, or you can just go.” He gestures towards the door, a kind of resignation in his eyes.

My face heats. He’s been kind. Patient. And here I am, ready to rabbit at the first instant. Although after the last twenty-four hours, I give myself some grounds for it.

“I’d just like to ask you one thing first,” he says, as I continue to hesitate. “Do you remember… do you remember what you said right before you passed out?”

I think back to the blinding pain and the voices… What did I say?

“I’m not sure.”

“Alright, then.” He stands, his smile forced. “Can I drive you, or..?”

I’m loath to leave, now; floundering for a way to allow him the graciousness he’s shown me, I suggest, “We could finish the seating chart?”

His brows rise as he halts. “You’re really worried about that?”

“We may as well.” My face heats more, and he shakes his head, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Stubborn as ever.”

“Well, I don’t just depend on my charm and efficiency to get me through.” The words are out of my mouth before I know what I’m saying, and he looks just as shocked as I feel. He takes a half-step towards me, and I look down. “Sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

“We can finish, if you like.” His voice is careful, deliberate. “But only if you’re feeling up to it. Or I’ll send you packing.” His voice contains the ghost of a smile, but when I look up, it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Shall we?” He extends a hand, and we descend to a kitchen, rather depressingly painted in an off shade of grey. The paperwork’s left on the table, a bit more filled in than I remember it.

“We really don’t have to,” he says, as I go and take a seat.

“I want to.”

He sits near me as I look things over— he finished it. I frown again at his placement of Fr. Galvin, but as everything else looks good… besides, he had a point. If nothing else, a picture of those two would look good in the paper. Our illustrious chair is not, shall we say, photo-friendly.

“Why didn’t you tell me it was all done?”

“I didn’t want to hurt your pride.”

I sigh. “You don’t have to be chivalrous. I’d rather face the music now than later. I’m just not up to doing things, let alone properly.” I put my face in my hands.

“It was a migraine attack, it’s not like you could predict it.”

“It’s not that I’m talking about.” The tears seep out from between my eyelids, out under my hands, down my cheeks.

“Gloria?”

“My engagement has officially ended.”

Silence for a long minute. “Ah.”

“It’s for the best. I don’t know what I saw in him, but…” a strangled half-sob breaks out of me. “I’m so tired. I can’t finish anything. My mind’s not my own anymore. I just wanted to complete this.”

“I’m sorry,” he says softly.

“And they won’t be silent. I can’t even have my pain in silence.”

“They?”

I realize what I’ve said, and bite my lip, wiping my eyes. “I’m… hearing things. When I have the migraines.”

“What kind of things?”

This isn’t good. “Promise to keep it under wraps. At least for a little while?” Long enough for me to maybe get a grip. See a doctor. Try to see it through, even if I need more help than I thought.

“I promise. I happen to be remarkably good at keeping secrets.” There’s a trace of mirth in his voice, even if his eyes hold worry. I jut my chin a little. I’m not that far gone, not yet.

“I’m… I’m hearing voices calling for someone. An ‘Agent Morning Glory.’” I can’t look at him as I say it, choosing instead to fiddle with the edge of the papers before me. “One of the voices sounds a lot like you.”

A long pause before he asks, in the quietest voice possible, “Are you sure you don’t know her?”

I open my mouth to reply, looking up at him, and stop short. The look in his eyes is one of hope and despair at odds.

And it blasts through my mind. Pain, and this time, the sea of memory.

I am Gloria VanBuren. My family has influence; I have freedom. And when I am approached by certain parties about serving my country, in ways that many would never know of or acknowledge, I agree.

Mostly, it’s the passing of documents, delivery of packages. Occasionally, hosting someone, no questions asked. It was then I met him.

We didn’t see each other often, but when we did, there was more than mere pleasantries. He was a good friend, and perhaps, in another place and time, we might’ve been more. He knew my real name, but always, in private, respected my privacy by keeping my codename between us.

Agent Morning Glory.

It was a rainy day when my delivery went wrong; and though I do not remember this part well— pain flashes greater here than otherwise —I remember that he was not the only one who called my name.

And when I awoke in the hospital, it all ceased.

‘Til now. All I know is the Flora Gala is important. I’ve always known.

I gasp, and he grabs my hand, to keep upright.

“Are you alright?”

“I… Am I..?”

“Don’t. It’s too much.”

“I know you.”

His face spasms, somewhere between joy and frustration. “Yes. But that’s not important now.”

“Where are we, really?”

“Safe house. But there’ll be trouble if you’re missed for too long. That’s why I want to get you back.”

“I’m scared,” I say as he helps me to my feet. “What if I forget again? What’s wrong with me?”

“I don’t know. But I swear, I’ll get you help, soon as this is over.”

I look up at him. “Promise?”

He stops, and with the hand that’s not guiding me, lifts my chin the slightest bit. “I promise… Gloria.”

~The End~

Something Cool to Me:

When my younger sisters and I do summer reading, our library tracks it through Beanstack, a site that requires readers to have a profile (so no cheating and easy for them to access). We've done several themed group-profile pictures over the last couple of years, but this year, we've been kicking around different ideas. I got some good suggestions from friends, but I believe my sisters have settled, at last, on their choice: Avatar the Last Airbender. Of course, my sisters have pretty much already finished the program despite being only a week into it, but that's what you get with underestimating a set of book-obsessed nerds.

Closing thoughts:

"Let us run with endurance the race that is set before us, looking unto Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith, who for the joy that was set before Him endured the cross, despising the shame, and has sat down at the right hand of the throne of God." Hebrews 12:1b-3

Joy despises shame. If we are truly living in God's joy, it will scorn the shame the world attmepts to bring to bear. We will not go quietly into the night... we will go with singing.

Just a thought.

The fox bows again, and as it turns to leave, cocks its head.

"Shall I take a message in return?"