stefanie_bean: (Hurley and Claire)
[personal profile] stefanie_bean
Chapter 42: Tales of Brave Ulysses
Pairings: Hurley/Claire, Kate/Sawyer
Characters: Hugo "Hurley" Reyes, Benjamin Linus, Desmond Hume, Claire Littleton, Kate Austen, James "Sawyer" Ford, Rose Nadler, Bernard Nadler, Carole Littleton, Aaron Littleton, Background & Cameo Characters, Original Non-Human Characters
Rating: M
Length: 4987 words
Status: Complete
Notes: Fantasy and supernatural elements. Think American Gods on the Island.

Summary: Hurley is now Protector of the Island, while Claire, Kate, and Sawyer head back to our world. But when it comes to love, the Island has ways to get you where you need to be.

Chapter Index


Chapter 42: Tales of Brave Ulysses

Desmond woke to ringing, followed by piping, childish shrieks. “Daddy! Daddy! Phone!” Squinting in the morning sun, he reached across Penny's shoulder and missed, sending the telephone clattering to the floor.

“Des, what on earth?” Penny held her arms out to Charlie as the almost-three year old boy scampered onto their bed. “Come here, love.”

Stumbling, Desmond almost knocked over the gold Ormolu clock on the bedside table, then placed the receiver in its cradle. “Too late.”

“Well, you did ask for a wake-up call, Des.”

“Aye, I know.”

Shrieking with laughter, Charlie bounced on the bed, then hid under mounds of pillows. As Penny tussled with the boy, her dark gold hair fell into her face, and her pink Lanz of Austria gown slipped off her shoulder.

Charlie had his own room with a low trundle bed in their suite at the May Fair Hotel, but he didn't often stay there. This was one of those mornings when a spot of privacy might have been nice. With a sigh, Desmond placed a kiss on Penny's bare shoulder, then drew back the drapes to reveal a splendid view of Mayfair and in the distance, the misty spring green of Hyde Park.

Penny reached for the phone and a room service card. “Settle down, Charlie, Mummy has to call for breakfast.”

“I want bangers! Bangers!”

“Daddy wants bangers too,” Desmond said. “And black pudding this time.”

The order given, Penny began to brush her hair in front of the Chippendale vanity mirror. “I admit that I'm getting tired of breakfast in bed. Can't we take a meal in the dining room for once?”

They'd been over this multiple times since checking in. "You know what happened when we got to London, Pen. We couldn't even stay at your flat, mobbed as we were by the press. Even when we went to ground here they still found us, and went right after You-Know-Who.” He gestured towards the child, busy pretending to be Mr. Mole chasing Mr. Toad through tunnels in the bed-clothes.

Charlie's curly blond head popped out from under the coverlet. “Who's You-Know-Who, Daddy?”

“Big ears,” Penny said to Desmond.

Full of indignation Charlie said, “I don't have big ears!”

“Why don't you take him into the shower with you, Des, get him dressed? I have some paperwork to do before our appointment.” She tried to hide her exasperation from the child, who wasn't the cause, but rather Widmore's enormous, tangled mess of an estate.

As Desmond led Charlie to the bathroom, he said, “What in bloody hell does Mittelos Bioscience want with your father's business, anyway?”

Penny trained ice-blue eyes on him and said, “Language, Des,” then went back to counting brush-strokes.


* * * * * * * *


Even though the charcoal-grey suit hung loosely on him, Penny insisted that he wear it. The food in Tonga hadn't been the best, but at least his clothing fit better than when he had fallen into Penny's arms at Heathrow. Then the first words out of her mouth were, “Des, you're skin and bones!” Good English fry-ups were a remedy for that, but the suit still looked baggy.

“Come on, Des, it's almost ten, and you haven't even put on your tie.”

“That's because you haven't picked one out, Pen.”

She handed him a mauve silk tie with dots of dark violet and watched as he fumbled with the knot. Years ago she would have stepped in and tied it for him. Now she knew to stand back, even though she did straighten it when he was done.

Charlie had been bribed with an hour of telly while Mummy and Daddy met with the grown-ups, although Desmond doubted the meeting would be over that quickly. More than once Desmond had brought up the possibility of a nanny while Penny attended to Charles Widmore's affairs.

However, Penny wouldn't hear of a child-minder. “Would you trust just anyone with your son?” she had wailed, eyes full of fear and appeal. “I already lost you in Los Angeles. What if that had been Charlie?”

She wouldn't be budged. So Charlie went everywhere with them, even once to the court-room, where he sat in the gallery with Desmond, fascinated by the robes and wigs.

Thank God the child was easily amused and not fidgety. Dour solicitors broke into smiles and called him “little man,” praising Penny for how well-behaved he was. More than once Desmond was tempted to spit out that unruly toddlers who grew up aboard sailing ships were soon dead ones.

Penny settled herself into the suite's office, where manila folders full of notes and a laptop covered one end of the wide mahogany table. From a wheeled room service trolley laden with coffee, tea, pastries and sausages, Desmond helped himself to a cup of Earl Grey.

He was about to nick a Weißwurst when Penny gave a little cough. “Those are for the meeting.”

Arguing would be pointless. All at once, a few sharp knocks cut through the sounds of some Yank cartoon coming from the next room. Penny straightened her suit jacket and gave him a smile. “Look sharp, Des.”

Hand on the doorknob, Penny peered through the peephole, then scrutinized a photograph of a lean, hawk-faced man with black hair. Satisfied, she opened the door and thrust out her hand. “I'm Penelope Widmore, and you must be Richard Alpert. Please come in.”

So this is the ageless legend, Desmond thought. Alpert's reputation preceded him, courtesy of Ben and Hugo's stories. Then Desmond shoved himself in front of Penny, blocking Alpert's entrance to the suite, while Penny gave a little gasp. Richard Alpert wasn't alone.

Penny's voice rang out in anger and fear. “You.”

“What in sodding hell might you be doing here?” Desmond glared at the white-haired woman in a trim blue suit who stood behind Alpert.

Charlie padded up to his parents. “Mummy? Daddy?”

“Really, Mr. Hume,” Eloise Hawking said in an affronted voice. “Your child is going to grow up swearing like a sailor.”

Darting eye-daggers at Eloise, Penny gathered Charlie into her arms. “Haven't you done enough already? Did you have to track us here from Los Angeles?”

“Mrs. Hume, let me explain—“ Richard started to say.

Down the hall, a bellhop struggled under the weight of several enormous bags, while an elderly couple followed close at his heels. Eloise turned to Desmond with a twinkle in her eye, as if the whole scene amused her. “Might we come in, Mr. Hume? I doubt you want the entire hotel to hear what we have to say.”


* * * * * * * *


At the office table, Penny poured coffee for Richard and Eloise, all the while staring stone-faced at Desmond. At least she no longer had that white ring around her lips, the sure sign that Penny was ready to take off heads. Why the hell was she blaming him, though? She should have saved her ire for Richard Alpert, who had dropped this bomb on them without any notice.

Richard opened his own laptop and began his presentation. At first Desmond peered over at Penny's screen, but the charts and spread sheets soon set him adrift with boredom. Richard slung around numbers and phrases like “insufficient capitalization” and “unsupportable debt.”

The price they were offering was fair, Richard insisted. If she wished, Penny could continue to operate Widmore Laboratories at a loss, even drive it into bankruptcy, although people depended on Widmore drugs for their very lives. Worse, there was the threat of unrest in Tunisia, even a possible collapse of the government. Was she prepared to deal with that level of risk? Mittelos had, and quite successfully.

Penny just nodded, unsmiling, while Eloise smirked openly at Desmond. According to Penny, Eloise had come to the Marina Medical Center in LA right after Desmond had been shot by Ben Linus and had apologized, almost in tears. Lot of fat good that had done Desmond, seeing as Widmore had kidnapped him from the hospital that very night.

Eloise leaned back in her padded chair and played with her lapel brooch, a silver snake eating its tail in an endless circle. From her ice-blue eyes and ever-present smile, Desmond was willing to bet that she wasn't here to negotiate the sale of Widmore's pharmaceutical business.

An icy realization ran through his body and at once he knew. Oh, no. Hell no.

Penny's voice brought him back to the brightly-lit room lined with glossy antiques, its table spread with papers and technology, the old mixed with the new. “I'm going to run it past our solicitors, and our board has to vote, of course. But I think we may have a deal, Mr. Alpert.”

Richard half-rose from his seat, shook Penny's hand, then turned to Desmond, expectant.

A deal? Penny sent him a small, tight smile, the first since Eloise had showed up at their door. Desmond took that as his cue to shake Richard's hand, although he honestly had no idea what they were ratifying. All he could see was the cool purpose in Eloise's eyes.

“I can assure you, Mrs. Hume, you won't be disappointed,” Richard was saying.

The cold sense of dread hung over Desmond like fog, making him jump when Eloise spoke. “Now that our first order of business is out of the way, I'd like your leave to move on to the second.”

She waited until everyone had helped themselves to the breakfast trolley, even Charlie. When the child had settled down with another program and a plate full of biscuits, Eloise turned to Penny with a grandmotherly smile, eyes as brilliant as those of the coiled snake on her brooch. “Mrs. Hume, do you really want to be doing this job?”

Penny's face fell, and Desmond knew exactly why. Penny loved the open sea, hopping from one island to another. Duty called, though. Take it on the chin. Keep up the side. Blood is thicker than water, you know.

“I'm here to take this off your hands, Mrs. Hume.”

Startled, Richard sat up. Ah, so even the long-lived one was out of the loop.

Desmond watched, helpless, as in the dreams he used to have right before performances, the kind where on opening night no sets were yet built, where he'd missed every rehearsal, yet in ten minutes the curtain was going up whether he was ready or not.

“What are you suggesting, Mrs. Hawking?” Penny's voice was clipped, tough, but Desmond could see that she was ready to yield.

“That you petition the court to allow me to serve as executor to Charles's estate.” Eloise laid a folder on the table. “Here are my bona fides, proof of my financial experience as assistant comptroller in Widmore Pharmaceuticals' early days, and as parish administrator for Star of the Sea. Letters of recommendation, including a few from Charles's former board members. I have no financial or emotional stake in this offer, and I make no claim upon the estate as an heir.”

Penny just nodded, Go on.

“Last but not least,” and here Eloise gave Richard a glance akin to the one the butcher gives a chicken before delivering the killing blow, “While it is true that Charles and I had a son, he's dead, and thus not a claimant either.”

Penny stared at the manila folder without opening it, while Eloise leaned back in her chair.

No one seemed to notice her irritating smirk except Desmond. “So what's the catch then?”

Eloise's wide blue eyes were all innocence. “The catch?”

Before Desmond could answer, Richard stirred himself out of his shock. “You don't just lay a request like this on the table, Ellie. Mittelos has offered twice what this obviously depreciating asset is worth, and now you swoop in and offer to take over the management of the Widmore estate. Of course there will be suspicions.”

That doesn't explain the hurt in his voice, Desmond thought. Not by a long shot.

Eloise shook like a peahen ruffling its feathers. “Of course there's a catch. There always is. Desmond, do you remember what my last words were when we parted ways?”

The dread ran up his back like an electric shock, almost propelling him out of the chair. Slowly he recited, “'The Island isn't done with you yet.'”

She nodded at her apt pupil. “And yours were that regardless, you were done with the Island. Which turned out to not be exactly true, was it?”

Desmond flew to his feet, voice almost at a roar. “Did you have anything to do with that? You and Widmore?”

Penny's voice cut through the red fog of Desmond's rage. “Sit down, Des!”

“Daddy?” rose Charlie's voice from the other room, above the din of the telly.

“Now you've done it,” Penny said through gritted teeth. She called out, “It's all right, love. The grown-ups are just talking.”

“OI had nothing to do with your kidnapping,” Eloise said to Desmond, cool and collected. “What do you take me for? Charles never even asked for my help. Whatever he required to return to the Island, he didn't obtain it from me.”

“Jacob,” Richard said half under his breath.

“No doubt.” Eloise folded her arms, as if she had all the time in the world. “I understand, Desmond, that your sailing vessel is docked in Newport Beach.”

Richard leaned back, eyes half-closed, as if he knew what was coming and simply wanted to get it out of the way. Penny started tapping her spoon on the side of her tea-cup, the clicks of sterling against bone-china like tiny piano notes. Irrationally, Desmond wanted to start breaking furniture, just to fight his way to the door.

But Penny would kill him if he did that, so he tried to pull it together. “Aye, and just why would you be asking about Our Mutual Friend?”

“Because I wish to charter her.”

“No. It's bloody ridiculous.”

“Won't you hear me out first?” Eloise said.

“Hear you out? Last time I heard you out, you told me that I was never going to marry Penny, and that whatever I did on the bloody Island was going to be the best thing I ever did in my life.” He turned to his wife, hating to tell her this, but unable to stop. “I bought a sodding ring from her and didn't give it to you. Just threw it in the Thames instead.”

“What?” Penny said, losing her composure for the first time.

“Well, I suppose I was wrong,” Eloise said.

At once Desmond hated her and her silver brooch, her skin flawless despite her age, her posh accent which never lost its faint sneer. Whatever Eloise's offer was, he wanted no part of it. “Anyway, I can't do what you want.”

“And pray tell why not?”

Desmond lowered himself back into his chair, silent before the memory of how the Tonga police had gone over him, how their ham-handed search of his person had degenerated into a fight when he resisted. He supposed he had deserved the full-body cavity search which resulted. Not to mention that they had confiscated his compass, Komos's gift from the Island.

The Tongans had locked him in a concrete-block gaol and never laid a hand on him after that. Soon he'd gotten used to the drunks who passed through for a day or two, then vanished until the next weekend. A few of them he even got to know by name as they played some cards, threw a few punches, but nothing serious.

After a long pause Desmond said, “Why? Because I don't have the compass that got me from the Island to Tonga in the first place.”

“Well.” Eloise looked as if she smelled something unpleasant. “A bit of a complication, I agree.”

“Desmond, what is she talking about?” Penny said.

Eloise rose to her feet, graceful despite her years. “Come along, Richard. I'm sure these two have matters to discuss.” She laid a business card on the table as she swept both Penny and Desmond with her searchlight of a gaze. “Richard and I are staying at Claridge's. I've written down our room numbers. Please don't delay, as there's a bit of a timing issue here.”

“Isn't there always?” Desmond said, his tone surly. He remained seated as Penny saw Richard and Eloise to the door.


* * * * * * * *


Desmond grabbed a bottle of stout and joined Charlie in front of the telly, where grotesquely-drawn figures ran around making maniacal shrieks. The little boy had fallen asleep on a heap of throw pillows, so Desmond turned the telly off and covered Charlie with a quilt, then shut the door behind him.

The other rooms were empty. Penny, Eloise, and Richard were still talking in the hall for quite some time, with Penny's low tones barely audible through the heavy door.

After Penny let herself in, she sank into the couch and covered her face with her hands. “Eloise Hawking makes a convincing argument.”

The ice of anxiety stabbed Desmond again. “For what?” Not that, no, not that, anything but that.

“Desmond, I want to hand this to her so badly. She knows the magistrate presiding over the estate and he's sure to allow it. Their fathers were at Oxford together—“

“The old school tie, eh?” He couldn't keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

“I don't want to spend the next year of our lives chained to London, writing checks, watching creditors fight over every scrap. My father never involved me in any of his dealings. Why should he have burdened me with them now?”

“She's after the money, Pen. Didn't you tell me that his will specified 5% to go to the executor? That's hundreds of thousands of pounds.” Even as he said it, he knew it wasn't true. Whatever Eloise wanted, it wasn't money.

While Desmond finished the last of the tea, Penny picked at a soggy Danish. “Needless to say, I'm going to check all this over. But it's not that severe a request, is it? Her one condition, I mean.”

He couldn't believe his ears. “You think I should?”

“Not 'I,' Des. We.”

The same helplessness washed over him that he'd experienced in the Royal Scots, in military prison, in the Tonga gaol. No, the worst was being trapped in that hole in the ground on the Island, not even knowing why he went along. He must have been mental, round the bend entirely.

Before he knew it, he was reaching for his coat and heading for the door. Anything to keep moving, to escape the trap which yawned at his feet, the whirlpool ready to suck him into the long funnel of fate. Once he descended, there would be no second chance. No getting out this time.

“Where are you going, Desmond? I swear, if you walk out on me—“

He whipped around, pushing overcoat buttons through the buttonholes as fast as his fingers could manage. “I just need a walk, to clear my head.”

“This is absurd, we have to talk—“

As the door shut behind Penny, it cut off the last words of her sentence. When Desmond stepped out onto the busy London street in front of the May Fair Hotel, he saw that the sun had melted into the pale grey rain which passed for an English spring.

Two blocks from the hotel, he noticed he'd left his mobile phone behind.


* * * * * * * *


Desmond wandered up one London street and down another, turning right, then left, but always heading towards the Thames.

The city had changed from eight, nine years before. Every block, it seemed, was covered with scaffolds which obscured the pavement. New storefronts popped up everywhere, advertising mobile phone shops and Yank chain restaurants. Three hundred year old buildings sprouted shiny new facades.

He ducked into a news-agent's shop where he browsed the tabloids, then stopped as cold fear ran down his back once more. The cover of the gaudiest and worst of them featured a woman in a tight black sheath dress, her dark hair flying, caught in mid-motion by the camera. Sweet bloody hell, he knew her, if not the tall, lean man also in the shot. When he picked up the tabloid, the clerk growled, “You want to leaf through it, mate, you buy it.”

Absently laying a quid onto the counter, Desmond retreated outside. Under the awning, out of the rain, he tried desperately to stop the pounding of his heart.

It was Kate Austen. Above her shapely form, enormous red and black letters screamed, “Double-Crash Babe on the Run Again!” Inside were more photographs of Kate, as well as her father Sam Austen (“formerly of Des Moines, Iowa”) and the light-haired man (“unidentified as we go to press, although possibly a passenger on the doomed Oceanic 815,”) all taken in front of some sanatorium in Iowa. He skimmed further, thought he saw the name “Aaron Austen” mentioned, then could read no more.

His flesh creeped, as if being watched. There, in front of the book seller's next door browsed a man, unremarkable in his grey coat and black homburg. Despite the strange man's ordinariness, again a nagging sense of familiarity haunted Desmond. His gaze traveled down the man, and then his heart did skip a beat, for the strange man didn't wear dress shoes, but cherry-red Converse trainers.

Not seeing any books which interested him, the red-trainer man turned away. Desmond let his tabloid fall to the pavement and darted over to the man's side. “Excuse me, brother, I know you.”

The man turned eyes as grey as his coat onto Desmond, and he wore a sarcastic little smile. “I don't think so.”

“Aye, but I do. I watched you die.”

The noise of the street suddenly grew very quiet, despite the rumbling buses, honking horns, and the crush of midday pedestrians. All at once the man bolted down the street, pushing through the crowd. Without thinking Desmond took off after him like a shot.

As middle-aged as the man appeared, he sure as bloody hell could run. The man raced down a side street with Desmond in hot pursuit as he panted like a bellows and cursed himself for having gone soft in recent months. Right, left, then right the man dashed, always with Desmond just far enough behind, until Desmond lost sight of him near an Underground entrance.

Had his prey gone down to the Tube? If so, he might board a train and never be seen again. Desmond's heart sank. Just as he was just about to give up pursuit, down the block he caught a glimpse of the man's bright red shoes, and gave chase once more.

When a double-decker bus rounded the corner, the man had to stop, and Desmond almost caught up with him. Then, the fleeing man doubled back and dashed into a blind alley surrounded by older buildings not yet renovated.

Even though it was mid-afternoon, the sky grew suddenly dark and rain poured like buckets. There were no doors along the alleyway, just brick walls with windows too high to reach from the street level. At the end of the cul-de-sac there appeared a shabby door with a faded pub sign which read, “The Friend-in-Deed.”

He must be in there, Desmond thought. Water was running freely down his collar, and despite the sheltering walls, a strong wind made it feel more like February than early April. All right, here goes nothing.

Inside, the wood-paneled pub was full of men of a sort you didn't see anymore in Mayfair or Covent Garden. No one wore a dress coat or designer clothes, much less red shoes. Rough men rested their tweed elbows on the tables and shouted to one another in accents Desmond hadn't heard since his youth. It was as if he had once more become dislodged in time.

He slid into the only open stool at the far end of the bar, near a wall that appeared to be made of wattle-and-daub. From his coat a steady stream of water dripped onto the wooden floor. To his right sat an old man whose fat hams drooped off either end of the bar-stool, his flat woolen cap pulled down low over his face.

At the opposite end of the bar, an aproned man wiped glasses and laughed with some customers. In order to catch the barman's attention, Desmond craned his head, trying vainly to see around the fat man. All at once, the man raised his leonine head and bellowed, “Nigel, get your shiftless arse down here!”

Grinning, the barman stood before the two of them. “You old sod, I should have cut you off an hour ago.” His laughing tone softened his harsh words.

“Not just me, you whore-son. My friend here's thirsty.”

“Wet too, by the looks of him.”

“The house rye, if you please,” Desmond said, feeling around for his wallet.

The fat man said, “Bollocks to that swill. We'll have a couple rounds out of Nigel's special stock.”

The laughter vanished from Nigel's face. “At once, sir.”

After the barkeep hurried off, the fat man said in a friendly growl, “Put your blinking wallet away. These're on me.”

When the whiskey came, Desmond knocked back the whole shot. It slid down his throat like liquid gold, then kicked him right between the eyes. The bar glowed with rich yellow light, hazy with pipe smoke and the sweat of damp wool jackets. Again that sense of familiarity washed over Desmond, as if he'd been coming to this pub for his whole life and knew everyone there, especially the fat fellow across from him.

“True, this isn't Glasgow, but at least we have some good Scottish single-malt,” the man said. “Good to see you again, Desmond.”

He had lost his mind, no doubt about it. True, the fat man's pasty skin was pale instead of bright green, and his beard no longer covered his broad chest. Even so, across from Desmond sat the gift-giver from Pele's party back on the Island. The one who had given him the compass.

Desmond flopped against the wall, letting it prop him up. “Komos.”

“The very same.”

“You look as though you'd been dipped in bleach. And you trimmed your beard.”

Komos chuckled. “Appearances my friend. All appearances.” From beneath the bar he struggled with a canvas bag. “By the way, I've got something of yours. It was devilishly hard to get back.”

Curious despite himself, Desmond leaned in for a closer look as Komos rummaged through what looked like leftovers from an unsuccessful jumble sale. His breath seized when Komos dug past a pair of red trainers, then said, “Ah, here we go.”

From the bag Komos pulled Desmond's compass, none the worse for wear.

At first Desmond didn't want to touch the shiny brass object, the culmination of all the madness which had started from the moment he had walked into Eloise Hawking's jewelry shop years before.

Komos must have sensed his hesitation. In a soft, keening chant he quoted, “'Your fate, woven on the woof of time, is to neither stay nor go, to remain neither in your world nor this one. Other gods in the sea have claimed you for their own, and for you they will open channels upon which others may not sail. And this departure marks the first step of that journey.'”

“Quite a memory you have, brother,” Desmond whispered.

Komos shifted his bulk off the stool and leaned in very close. “They need you.” His words could barely heard above the pub's din.

Throughout Desmond's life, too many people had called him a coward. He had thought that the bravest thing to do was to return, to find Penny and Charlie once more, with no thought to what came after.

Now, the hereafter was being handed to him in the form of a compass that would point towards home, wherever that might be. Desmond stared into that round Father Christmas face which waited patiently for an answer.

“I can't do this on my own,” Desmond finally said.

“Of course not,” Komos replied. “No one does it alone.” From his jacket pocket he drew a mobile phone unlike any Desmond had ever seen. Its glass display had no icons, just a solid green glow, and it gave a faint ring as if a number had just been dialed.

“Go ahead, Desmond. She's going to pick up in a second.”

When Desmond took the phone, Penny's voice came through as clear as if sitting next to him. “Hello? Desmond, is that you?”

“It is, Pen. I forgot my phone, and this bloke let me borrow his.”

“Thank God you're all right. Where are you?”

Desmond didn't answer at first. At once he knew that when he walked out that pub door, if he turned around he would see nothing but a boarded-up hole in a crumbling building slated for demolition. “Just took shelter from the rain. I'll be home soon.”

She spoke to someone in the background, a woman. “Eloise is here, Des. We're just sitting down to tea. We've... we've had a long talk. Working things out and all.”

“Penny, I've been thinking that you and I should—“

“I'm three steps ahead of you, love. I agree.”

Relief washed over him like warm rain, Island rain. “Go ahead and have your tea, Pen. I love you.”

When Desmond handed the phone back to Komos, it was like a trade. The brass compass felt warm in his hand, as if it belonged there. Tears stung his eyes as he placed it in his pocket.

(continued)

(A/N: “Tales of Brave Ulysses” was a song on the British rock group Cream's 1967 Disraeli Gears album.)


(no subject)

Date: 2015-12-13 01:55 am (UTC)
desdemonaspace: (Default)
From: [personal profile] desdemonaspace
Funny, before you messaged me, I was thinking of rereading your two WIPs, to keep my memory fresh. No fear, this chapter brought the whole Komos thing back, sharp as a slap in the face. I REALLY ship Des and Penny, and am so pleased with how you handle them. And may I say, I'm incredibly happy that they're going back to the Island.

One little editorial thing I noticed. This passage:

You know what happened when we got to London, Pen. We couldn't even stay at your flat, mobbed as we were by the press. Even when we went to ground here they still found us, and went right after You-Know-Who.”

needs a preceding quotation mark. Where Des is speaking, it's not clear if he's speaking or thinking it. (A tiny thing! I'm a better beta than I am a writer.)

As always, lovely and consistent. I want to see my beloved characters safe under Hugo's benevolent protection, and the Island's. Lovely work, thanks again for writing it.

As

(no subject)

Date: 2015-12-14 04:30 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] stefanie-bean.livejournal.com
Oh, those little mistakes... Thanks for pointing it out! (It's now fixed.)

Glad you liked how I handled Desmond/Penny. It seemed fitting to have Eloise break the news to Des that "the Island wasn't done with him yet." Again. ;-)

Again, thanks so much for reading & commenting.

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