[an excerpt, from a crumpled entry, April 1889:]

One day, I shall apologize for my behavior. I think.

If I have learned to go through the day having regretted what I had done, in which I remain unapologetic about.

"The personality of a woman may be ascertained through her hair," one Lady Adelaide once said, beneath a garish fan and a hot whisper against the ear. In this newfound revelation, Aleister believed it to be a standard of sorts.

He remembered a certain redhead of the name Cairméal; her hair was more like a mane of thick fizzled ringlets that snarled up his fingers in clumps as they were untamed, course, and voluptuous. Redheads were fun and concupiscent and so intoxicatingly wild, although the brightest flame always did burn out the quickest. They parted in good terms, the scent of scotch and orange blossoms barely faint.

Marie-Célestine had been a contrast with locks like spun gold; rich, smooth, blond. Blondes. They usually variegated; silvery-blond to golden-amber, pliant straight to soft curls, and cold snub to charmingly warm. Feminine had been synonymous for most of their kind―and in some cases, double-faced and mercurial. It was the short-lived night of lovemaking and then the next morning sentiments that either went to his favor or spoiled it for him. He would rather not divulge the latter.

On the other hand, Meifen was of ivory and obsidian, marble and silk. Like spilled ink, flowing black hair was draped on her pale shoulders, her long slender back. The dark beauties were magnetic and mysterious as the shade of their locks with a sort of feline-like elegance. There was a charm to them he particularly liked; he liked every part of them, honestly. Though as most mysteries endured it had begun to follow a distressing trend; thus turned it complicated and stale. Had it been that impeccable aloofness or the feel of ice instead of blood beneath her skin? Perhaps that was it.

Then there came the final tier, the brunettes.

He sighed.

Brunettes were such a commonality.

He slept with them the most though he could only recall some faces and name a rare honorable few than the whole majority. He had nothing against brunettes―in women generally―but alas the conclusion headed to the fact that there was nothing to be excited to the unbearably predictable. There wasn't anything to gush over the monotonous shades of dun and rust; simply a far cry to exceptional. Mild, malleable, earthy― he knew all of this already.

However his blue sparrow was a subject of controversy.

Aleister was almost certain she'd fall on the same category and gradually come after into bathos. Though it occurred to him that he was mistaken. So terribly mistaken.

It had been that particular morning.

"You're up early," she noticed him from the door, cool and calm in manner and speaking as she'd always been. "Tea's on the stove."

However it merely took her seconds to realize he'd been fixated, and he, a minute or so, unabashedly devoting his attention in a surprising object of interest. Admiring rather, he corrected in his private musings.

"What are you stari―"

When she glanced down, a realization dawned upon her. Her reaction was as boggled as his.

He cleared his throat. "Your appearance . . . it's not very, ah, decent."

His gaze was distracted by the thin cream-white cotton, brandishing the silhouetted outline of her person behind the morning light; the fabric might as well fall as one for tempting, the sort that didn't make him think twice about ripping it off because it would in lovely torn shreds. Then in its pale glory, his eyes traced over what little bared skin she could expose, as if they caressed—from the crest of her cheek, down, gently, at the smooth column of her neck, and ever so slowly, intimately, following the slope of her shoulders and the curved jut of her collarbones above a delectable décolletage. He must be teasing now—or, perhaps she?—when one could almost grope the small soft swells of her chest, peering back and beckoning him beneath the night gown.

In disorder with tousled unkempt hair, she was exquisite.

There was that rare coy pink coloring her cheeks; her mouth parted, unsure of the words she'd utter. Sighing in frustration, she wore the dress robe hanging from the side of her chair. "That's because I live on my own. I have liberties," she reasoned practically, smoothing her face, as she began to tie the robe strings. "That . . . was before you came along." Her tone dipped lower, turning her voice into a displeased grumble.

He lifted a suggestive brow. "You can look indecent in front of me."

He had seen far more indecency than the skin could ever provide―he'd even participated in the past, no less. However his blue sparrow was a special case altogether and the mere image of her with loosened morals, a loosened nightdress―stripped down naked―was what he hadn't anticipated, acknowledging that private fantasy so soon.

Admittedly, he wouldn't be in his right mind either if he hadn't thought about it.

Miss Hadley still appeared marvelously cross. "It's as if you're implying something else."

The mention only perked an amused smile on his lips. "So you're thinking of something else. Mind enlightening me?"

If appearances could kill, he would have been caught dead at the sight of her disapproving frown.

"Please. Do entertain your own thoughts. I won't humor you."

He smiled at that.

With pleasure.

Her brow twitched in annoyance. "It's rude to stare."

Indeed, it was shameless, though whenever had he not acted like such?

"Observing."

"Nonetheless, inappropriate."

"My dear, don't berate me of inappropriateness if you subject yourself to it as well."

Then there came her outrage, boiling with anger just as hot as a steaming kettle. "Oh don't compare me to your level. I'm not the one who's gawking at my chest."

Aleister smirked, in itself felt a little wretched, a little dirty, for a gentleman like him to ever impose. "I'm a man, love. How could I ever resist when you're so willing to flaunt it anyway?"

She bristled. "Pig."

Then she left and perfectly had the right to do so. He was wise enough to pursue no longer.

Perhaps, it hadn't been the best choice to follow the trend of categorizing women by their hair and all that drivel—because if he hadn't known better, his blue sparrow wouldn't have been a myriad of such horrible wonderful things.

And her transparency, he smiled crookedly, should be the blame of that.

A/N: This is just a collection of the things of in-between and deleted scenes and random one-shots that I couldn't add to the story. Whelp, I just posted it here anyway. Ratings may change for future chapters (soon).