Apologies for the delay. Thank you so much for reading & reviewing.
These are Matters of Fact, which I assure you they are truely related. But these, and all others that occurred to me…could never lead me into a remote Conjecture of the Cause of so extraordinary a Phænomenon. Whither it be a Quality in the Eyes of some People…concurring with a Quality in the Air…whither such Species be every where, tho not seen by the Want of Eyes so qualified—or from whatever other Cause, I must leave to the Inquiry of clearer judgements than mine.
The Secret Commonwealth of Elves, Fauns and Fairies, Robert Kirk
nine
"Sheil, my head is pounding." The low voice was imbued with such pain that Sheil swiftly turned around, her attention immediately drawn from the tale of Mrs. Berty's most recent trip to Falmouth.
Though words of protest instinctively rose to her tongue, Sheil's lips thinned with surprise and concern upon finding Isabella unmistakably affected; her pallor was sickly and white, her brow knit with a deep frown, her hands trembling at her sides. "Child, what's happened?" Sheil swiftly shifted from her initial response, raising a gloved hand to Isabella's elbow.
But the dark haired girl simply shook her head, her teeth cutting into her bottom lip until the pink flesh paled with lack of blood. "I'm certain Mrs. Berty has hartshorn…" But Isabella shook her head again and Sheil turned to Mrs. Berty, who had fallen silent with equal concern. "Would ye be so kind as to ask the maid to fetch our wraps? I'll see to the footman." Mrs. Berty nodded before she turned and made her way through the crowd towards the vestibule.
Sheil hesitated, then ducked her head in an attempt to catch Isabella's gaze, endeavoring one last time to convince her charge to stay. "Are ye certain a glass of ratafia won't set ye to rights?"
Isabella shook her head violently, brown eyes rising from her feet as she pleaded. "I just want to go home." The torment apparent in her gaze was answer enough for Sheil. She took Isabella's hand in a firm grip and led the way through the throng of people, following in Mrs. Berty's wake. The maid was waiting in the vestibule with their wraps and Sheil was relieved to see Mrs. Berty already in conversation with the footman, who would see to calling their carriage.
"Thank ye, Mrs. Berty. Ye are a savior."
Mrs. Berty simply nodded before placing a gentle hand on Isabella's shoulder. "See you get some rest, Miss Swan." Then, to Sheil she added, "Perhaps a bit too much excitement for one night."
Sheil simply nodded, then exhaled with relief as the footman gestured from the doorway, indicating their carriage was ready. "Good evening, Mrs. Berty."
"Good evening to you, too."
Then they were out in the cold air of the spring evening, the bright moon partially obscured by high clouds above. Sheil gestured for Isabella to step into the carriage first, wary the poor girl might faint given how clammy her hand had felt when Sheil took it in her own moments ago. It was only when the carriage was rattling down the cobblestone roads of Penzance that Sheil spoke again, certain there must be something more behind their sudden departure. It was difficult to believe that after asking to attend the ball she'd always merely tolerated, and receiving the pointed attentions of such eligible gentlemen, that Isabella could have had such an abrupt change of heart.
"Child, did something happen?" A sudden thought occurred to her. "I would have expected Miss Hale to open the ball had she been present—did she arrive late and snub ye?"
"No," Isabella's voice was a near moan and, as the moon shone through the carriage windows, Sheil could see she'd raised her hands to her head, gripping her skull as though she might force the headache away with sheer will. "Please, Sheil. No one was unkind to me."
At least, Isabella thought, no one had openly snubbed her. But she saw no use in riling her former nursemaid with the details of the conversation she'd overheard. Sheil would likely lose her temper and froth at the mouth for the duration of the ride back to Mousehole, lamenting the poor manners of the two girls, likely chiding Isabella for failing to rise from her hiding place more quickly and cutting the conversation short, and finishing the tirade with curses at the Fates themselves when she recalled Mr. Maçon was waiting to sup with them.
Sheil sighed loudly but remained silent for the remainder of the journey; Isabella could see her arms were crossed over her breasts in the dim shadows of the carriage's interior, her lips a thin line. This set expression only shifted to one of surprise, and then suspicion, when the carriage drew to a halt before Swan Cottage.
Isabella did not first comprehend the reason for this change in Sheil's demeanor, too distracted by her own thoughts and the faint but lingering pounding of her head to attend to why her companion was bidding the coachman to wait at the gate. "I'll be out directly should we find it's simply the candle that's gone out." It was only as Isabella registered the unrelieved darkness that made navigating the gravel path from the gate to the door more difficult than usual that she realized the lantern was missing. Sheil usually left it hanging on a hook next to the door, a fat tallow candle anchored within.
As Isabella carefully climbed the front steps, wondering at the clouds that had so swiftly obscured the bright moon, her gaze was involuntarily drawn to the left of the door—for there was a light inside, a hazy glow of yellow flickering behind the drapes of the front sitting room windows. "Well, I'll be…" Sheil whispered as she flung open the front door and hurried into the corridor. "Who's there? Meg, ye know ye can't run away from home every time ye get in a tussle with your brother—"
Isabella followed her former nursemaid with measured steps, a knot of certainty growing within that it was not Meg in the front sitting room, nor Mrs. Hammet—nor anyone they knew. The pounding in her head abruptly ceased as she drew up behind Sheil at the threshold and peered over her shoulder, breath caught in her chest. Isabella's eyes widened as she saw the seemingly innocuous figure of an old woman sitting in an armchair before the cold grate of the fireplace; there was but a small circle of light from the lantern on the cherry table before her, the room otherwise shadowed and dark, the tallow candle throwing fluttering figures across the papered walls. "Well, and who might ye be?!" Sheil cried, her voice filled with wary affront.
The old woman lifted her gaze from where her hands rested limply in her lap, her wrinkled features illuminated by the flame of the candle dancing within the glass panes of the lantern. The breath Isabella had been holding whooshed from her lungs in one gasp, a hand rising to her lips with the shock of seeing her eyes—and knowing who this woman was without any doubt.
"Marie Aecenbotme." Her voice was raspy with age but there was no mistaking the French accent that marked the words. "Isabella's grandmother." Her white hair was pulled into a neat knot at her crown, the violet fabric of her gown just visible beneath the folds of her heavy black cloak.
"It can't be," Sheil exhaled, all of her bravado draining from her figure as she took one hesitant step into the room.
"I could not come before," Marie spoke calmly, her gaze shifting to the settee opposite the chair in which she sat. "And I cannot stay long. Isabella, please come—there is much to discuss."
Sheil struggled to recover from her shock, her voice dubious as she attempted to protest, "Now, ye can't just turn up in the middle of the night—"
"But, Sheil," Isabella raised a hand to her companion's arm, realizing it was necessary to intervene. "Can't you see it's true?" Though the old woman's eyes were faded with age, her gaze was too unusual to deny the claim that she was Renée's mother. For were their eyes not exactly the same? Like Renée, Marie's eyes did not reflect the same color; even in the shadowed lantern light, Isabella could see her right eye was a cloudy blue, while the other glittered green as a jewel. It was one of the few things about which Renée had felt any self-consciousness, often keeping her gaze downcast when being introduced to people she had never met before. When Isabella was a child, her mother had often commented on how grateful she was that her daughter had inherited Charles' brown eyes.
"Aye, but—"
"Sheil, you should see to the coachman." Isabella's voice was firm, her gaze steady. "I can meet with Marie and see to the spare bedchamber."
Sheil hesitated, her brow furrowed as she turned to Isabella, blue eyes filled with worry. Finally, with a grumble of dissatisfaction, she turned from the room. Isabella soon heard the slam of the front door from the corridor.
Marie regarded the younger woman with an unwavering gaze for several seconds before her eyes again fell to her lap. Finally, she exhaled, "How I wish I could have come sooner." The words were poignant, imbued with wistfulness and bitterness. "But the unrest…and now that upstart, Bonaparte…" Her voice trailed into silence before she briskly shook her head. "But it is no use regretting things that cannot be undone."
Isabella had drawn further into the room and now sank into the settee opposite the bent figure of her grandmother. "Mére spoke of you often," Isabella responded quietly. "Of you, of home. Of Brocéliande and galettes and all the things she missed."
Marie's lips curved into a thin smile. "The forest. Yes, Brocéliande—she was there often as a girl. As was I, and my mother before me." Her eyes narrowed, her expression suddenly focused and shrewd. "But tell me, ma fille—your mother must have spoken to you of things other than her homeland."
Isabella's brow furrowed, confused, the question so pointed that she felt there must be something implied by the words that she did not quite understand. "But of course." She listed the first things that came to mind. "Because Father was often away, she spoke of him incessantly," Isabella could not help a small smile. "And her garden—the flowers she wished to plant and the herbs she wished to harvest. And—"
Marie shook her head impatiently, a disapproving huff of breath shooting past her lips. "Bah, no, no!" Her uncanny eyes fixed on Isabella's oval face, brows low. "Your schooling—your lessons."
Isabella tilted her head, still failing to understand why, after years of silence, upon finally seeing the granddaughter she had never had the opportunity to meet, this was the first thing Marie wished to know. "I did not have a governess but Mére taught me my letters—as well as pianoforte, embroidery, a little Latin—"
That explosive huff of air burst past Marie's lips again and she shifted in her chair with impatience. "Bah, child! I do not speak of these things. I speak of the other arts."
Isabella's brow furrowed more deeply, at a loss and desperately wishing she understood why this was so important. "I know not what you speak of. Greek? The classics? I admit to having only read the Iliad in English—"
But Marie would hear no more, one wrinkled hand cutting through the air with an impatient gesture. "No, Isabella!" She peered at her granddaughter, her expression a mixture of disbelief and frustration. "Do you mean to tell me your mother never schooled you on your birthright?"
For several seconds Isabella found she could not breathe, the room completely silent as she distantly thought how strange it was to see her mother so distinctly in the gaze of this older woman—and yet Marie was so utterly unlike Renée, her back bowed, her face a maze of lines, her voice filled with rasping impatience, that the impression was like seeing a painting dissolve beneath water, the oils bleeding and swirling before her eyes. Slowly, she realized she must respond though she feared the answer to her query, her hands trembling in her lap. "My birthright?"
Marie did not hesitate, her eyes wide as she leaned forward, outrage apparent in her tone. "Do you mean to tell me Renée never schooled you in les dons?" Isabella's lips parted, her eyes wide, Marie's final words echoing in her head like a gong.
Les dons.
The gifts.
Isabella sank back against the settee, as if she could physically escape the implication of Marie's words, her cheeks pale, eyes wide and staring. She longed to dismiss the aged woman's words as madness—perhaps due to her years, or all that she'd likely seen during the turmoil of the revolution. But somewhere in her heart she knew Marie was as sharp as a knife and would not speak nonsense.
As if Isabella's shocked reaction contained all she needed to know, Marie continued without waiting for a response. "Bah!" She waved a hand again, the motion disgustedly dismissive. "I might have guessed my daughter would try to shield you." Her gaze narrowed as she leaned forward again, her stare intent and thoughtful, as if she was listening to something Isabella could not hear. When she spoke again, her voice was soft. "But it matters not, does it? For you are blessed, whatever Renée may have desired." Her eyes sank shut as she slowly nodded her head. "And you know as much, do you not? The signs, they are present. It is clear as day."
Isabella began to shake her head, the movement becoming violent as she struggled to find her voice. But her lips were dry, her mouth full of sand as she tried to protest, tried to pretend she had no understanding of what Marie was saying. "I-I…"
But Marie would not listen, her certainty like a rod straightening her bent spine, her voice blithely dismissive as she interrupted, "You may plead ignorance with me all you like but I can see you know, jeune fille. Even if I were not blessed myself." She leaned forward again, gnarled hands braced upon her knees, "I can see it in your eyes. You know." She paused and Isabella was relieved to see Marie's shrewd gaze fall to her lap again. It was a reprieve that allowed her to gather her thoughts, struggling to think of some way to convince her grandmother that she was wrong, that she spoke of superstition and fairy tales and Isabella wanted no part of it.
But Marie's next question knocked the breath from Isabella's lungs as effectively as if she'd fallen from a horse while at full gallop across a field.
"You know when someone is coming, mayhap hours before they arrive?'
Isabella's eyes swiftly sank shut as she lifted hands curled into fists before her heart, denial on her lips though she could not breathe, could not speak. And even as she fought to say the words, her mind was filled with memories, so many memories, too many occurrences to count.
Rising from her knees in the garden, certain she'd heard the wagon wheels of Mr. Connor's cart…then waiting at the gate, a hand shielding her eyes, bemused by the empty road before her gaze. Hurrying from the house on some pretense, filled with anticipation...no, more than anticipation. Expectation. And though she could not have articulated it until she'd heard the gallop of his horse's hooves, she had known.
How often had she bid Sheil to heat water for tea, suspecting Mr. Eldritch would pay a call on his way to St. Buryan? She had always told herself that it was simply a matter of timing, that anyone could predict when the older gentleman would call if they knew the intervals at which he visited his son and daughter-in-law. But with Marie's gimlet eyes trained upon her, Isabella knew such denials would hold no water.
Marie did not need a response to know the answer to her question. She went on, "And mayhap you know other things—though you do not know how you know." Though Isabella could not breathe, could not speak, she found herself nodding, the air gushing from her lungs as if a great weight had been lifted from her chest.
Marie nodded though there was little satisfaction in the movement, her gaze resigned as it fell to her lap, her voice tinged with sadness as she spoke, "Renée could always tell when a storm was near."
Isabella finally found her voice. "I cannot—" The words died abruptly as she thought of the rain the other day, the hail pattering down, the shutter banging against her hand. It suddenly ached.
Marie's eyes widened ever so slightly as she saw Isabella was no longer filled with protests. "Yes, but other things. Yes?
Isabella's gaze was cast to the shadowed carpets, her bandaged hand curled into a fist, the words passing her lips with effort, unable to fully overcome her reluctance. She could not help thinking that at any moment she would awake in her bed, restless and clammy beneath the sheets, all of this a hazy dream. "Visitors, sometimes." Her voice was soft. "But nothing of import." Her gaze rose. "I did not know when my father passed, though Mére somehow knew—"
Marie nodded her head sharply. "Yes, and had Renée given you guidance, you might have developed your ability." She sighed deeply.
"And I have not her talent in the garden," Isabella went on. She bit her lip as she recalled the gaudy roses that had seemed to open overnight beneath her mother's ministrations. She had always thought it a childhood memory distorted by time. "Though I am told I have a talent with other living things." Her lips quirked as she thought of Mr. Maçon's teasing.
Marie nodded, as if this was to be expected. "But what else?" Her gaze cast around the room though Isabella somehow knew she did not see its contents, the papered walls, the basket of mending, the worn rugs. "My mother, your great grandmother, was a...we would say invocateur. You might say—" she squinted, searching for the word.
"Summoner. Caller."
Isabella could not have thought to endure any further shocks to her system, but somehow she was still upright, the fabric of her cloak rough beneath her fingertips, beneath hands that twitched and flexed, as if the movements could force her mind to accept this was all real.
Marie sensed her stunned reaction despite the gloom of the room, her voice insistent as she commanded, "Tell me."
Isabella hesitated only a moment. "After Mére died," she paused as she was taken back to that day, to the confusion and grief, the unbearable loss. Her eyes were wide but unseeing, recalling how the sun had faded from the bedchamber windows, her mother still and gray upon the white sheets. Mr. Cameron had been kind enough to come and administer last rites as Renée wished, and now he stood with Sheil, their voices whispers as they discussed the arrangements.
"Yes, child," Marie urged her.
Isabella blinked before her gaze fell to her hands. Her voice was flat when she spoke. "I was distraught. I knew it was for the best—Sheil cannot bear to speak of it now, but at the time she said it was only heartbreak that could have killed my mother's spirit. Only losing my father could have made her so ill." Isabella inhaled. "I knew it was for the best that she and my father finally be together." She shook her head. "But I could not help my sadness. When Sheil was preparing supper, after Mr. Cameron had left to fetch the undertaker…I ran from the cottage."
Marie's eyes abruptly glazed over, and Isabella could not help her fascination, watching closely as the older woman spoke as though in a trance. "And you became lost."
Isabella nodded though she knew her grandmother's eyes did not see her. "Yes, in the woods. Mére died at dusk and it had grown quite dark." Isabella shook her head. "I had no purpose in mind." But she could not bear to stay in the cottage where that gray figure lay, not at all like the vibrant, gay woman her mother had been. "I lost sight of the road and could not hear the ocean." She shook her head, thinking how reckless she had been to careen through the forest in the dark of night. "I thought to find my way back," she whispered, recalling how she had suspected she was nearer the Hammets' property rather than her own. Yet the light she knew she should see in the dark of the woods was no where to be found. "Hours passed and I became cold." Her eyes sank shut, thinking of that desperate moment, the fear that had chilled her blood, her bare hands curled against her lips for warmth. "I did not call aloud—"
Marie's eyes grew clear. "But it was in your thoughts."
Isabella nodded. "And Mr. Hammet found me."
Marie sank back into the chair, her gaze weary. "It is as I suspected." She shook her head. "But there is no time to train you..." she paused, her gaze narrowing and filled with curiosity rather than censure as she regarded her granddaughter over the flickering light of the lantern. "And I sense you do not wish to be trained."
Isabella hesitated, her eyes wide, before she spoke haltingly. "I have not fully convinced myself this is not all-all fancy..." And what's more, that in pursuing such things she would not risk standing out even further as an oddity than was already the case.
But Marie silenced her lingering denials with one low, authoritative word—a name, though it was not Isabella she was speaking to, nor anyone living.
"Renée."
Isabella sucked in a breath as wind moaned down the chimney, stirring the ashes in the grate, chilling her skin, and, despite the glass panes that protected the candle within the lantern, snuffing out its flame.
Despite the black gloom that had shadowed the far corners of the front sitting room with only the tallow candle to illuminate its contents, it took several seconds for Isabella's pupils to dilate with the sudden lack of light. Those seconds felt like an eternity, her breath panting from her lungs with fear, certain a ghostly specter was soon going to loom in the doorway.
As her eyes adjusted, Isabella's breath began to ease as she saw nothing in the room had shifted, her grandmother's form quiet and bowed in the chair, uncanny eyes closed against the darkness. "Grandmére?" Isabella whispered, eyes wide, the race of her heartbeat only beginning to slow as her gaze darted around the room once more to ensure no shrouded corpse had suddenly appeared.
But Marie did not stir, and Isabella found her attention abruptly drawn from the silent figure by the soft tap of rain drops against the leaded glass panes of the sitting room windows. Her gaze grew wide as the patter rapidly grew, soon becoming an incessant thunder; she could not quite comprehend that the weather had shifted so suddenly from the clear skies of only a few hours before. Her breath quickened once again, though she reminded herself that she had nothing to fear, that the tapping and scratching she heard was simply the surrounding tree branches against the cottage roof, the wind churned into a fury beyond the stone walls.
Nonetheless, Isabella was nearly set to rise, fear and confusion swirling in her stomach and giving her the sense that the floor was set to capsize beneath her feet. She wasn't certain what she intended to do—to shake her grandmother from her stupor, to flee from the dark room and find her former nursemaid abovestairs, to duck into the black of night and shower of rainfall in an effort to escape the truth of what this torrent was bringing. She simply knew she could no longer be still.
Only Marie was on her feet first, her figure surprisingly erect, her visage a blank mask as she turned on unerring feet to the sitting room door. Isabella's mouth gaped, watching with disbelief, unable to make sense of what was happening—but slowly realizing she would not be present to witness whatever Marie intended to do should she remain where she was. Quickly, Isabella sprang to her feet, hurrying to follow in the older woman's wake.
She bit back questions as she turned into the corridor and saw Marie was already on the stairs, climbing to the upper floors. Isabella lifted her skirts, quickening her pace, a dart of worry furrowing her brow as she wondered whether Sheil was already abed, or would soon appear on the landing marveling at the commotion of the storm outside.
But the landing remained empty, and Isabella turned her gaze from Sheil's closed door to see Marie was at the threshold of her own bedchamber, her hand sure on the knob as she twisted it and entered.
Isabella gathered her skirts in her hands before hurrying up the remaining steps, eyes wide as she realized she was panting with breathlessness. She hesitated at the open door, marveling that only hours before she had been within this very room full of anticipation and nervousness for the assembly ball in Penzance. It seemed like a very long time ago now, those memories already blurred and golden in her mind, this new present her only reality.
Sucking in a breath for courage, Isabella crossed the threshold, uncertain of what she would find inside.
Her eyes took only a moment to make out Marie's figure, still as a statue next to the bed, white head bowed. "Grandmére?" Isabella whispered, desperate to make sense of what was happening.
To her relief, Marie lifted her head and her countenance was returned to the canny, impatient expression she had worn throughout the majority of their conversation belowstairs. Her brow was faintly furrowed, her mismatched eyes narrow as she glanced back to the floor. "I sense it there—but you must fetch it. If I kneel, I will not be able to rise again."
Isabella's own brow furrowed with confusion though she moved to do as her grandmother bid, stepping forward and stooping to the floorboards. There had always been a spot next to her bed that creaked complainingly when trod upon; Isabella had avoided it the night she'd felt the compulsion to duck out of doors, certain Sheil would have woken had she heard the tell-tale sound indicating her charge was awake and about.
Marie stepped aside, her expression easing into knowing calm as Isabella pried at the board with her uninjured hand. It was only as she fluttered her bandaged hand within the gap that Isabella realized doubt still lived in her heart—that, somehow, she had not accepted the truth of what Marie had traveled so far to tell her. For her lips parted in surprise as her fingertips grasped the delicate edges of a piece of paper, dusty and gritty with how long it had lain beneath the boards. As she carefully eased the epistle from beneath its hiding place and brought it close to her gaze in the gloom of the room, she saw it was a letter, folded into thirds and sealed shut. Despite the passage of years, there was no mistaking the fine, swirling hand that marked the outer edge of the letter, nor the name written by that hand.
Isabella.
She could not help staggering to the bed, her free hand at her lips as tears blurred her gaze. Then, eagerly, she slid a finger nail along the seal and unfolded the sheet, her gaze hungry for the words of the woman who had raised her.
My daughter,
Words of apology seem inadequate, my darling girl. What's more, I am not entirely certain, even in this moment, that my writing them would be sincere. For I sought to spare you, Isabella. From the curiosity and from the gossip and from the speculation. From the knowledge you yourself would hold that the curiosity and gossip and speculation are warranted, and from the certainty that you are never fully a part of the life around you.
The gifts are not aptly named. For while they are a gift, they are also, like any power, a burden, too. To be so sensitive to things that cannot be fully explained, to be the subject of scrutiny, to watch in helplessness as your abilities fail a child too ill to benefit from your efforts—these are all burdens. To know your husband is gone before his major has touched quill to paper—how can this be a gift?
So I sought to spare you, however impossible a task. For I suspect it is impossible, Isabella. I suspect, though you have not inherited my gaze, you have inherited much else. But perhaps, even then, you will not suffer the isolation your mother suffered. Perhaps you will find a path that will not force you to conceal the truth from the one you love most.
Know, though, whatever the path, I love you, and in my love for you, sought to spare you what I suffered.
Be safe, my daughter. And what's more, be happy.
Maman
Isabella did not first realize Marie's hand was on her shoulder until she began to shake with the force of her tears, and the older woman's grip grew firm, trying to steady her. Though the words in Renée's letter were echoing in her head, Isabella somehow made out the soothing words her grandmother was speaking. "Shh, ma fille. You are very like her, you know, for all of your coloring being that of your father."
Isabella tried to shake her head, tried to find the words to deny the thing that Sheil had always claimed to be true; there had never been a time when she could see any resemblance between the light, fey woman who had been her mother and herself. But Marie's voice grew gruff and insistent. "Perhaps you lack her curls and the shape of her face, but I can see her quickness in your gaze, and her insouciance in how your lips twitch when you think of something that amuses you." Isabella's neck bowed, hiding her face in her hands, unable to stop the tears which fell in earnest again.
"Ah, child, take heart," Marie murmured, her strong hand squeezing Isabella's shoulder once again. "Take heart, ma fille." She sighed deeply, a weary sound. "Though I cannot stay to do what Renée should have done," she paused. "You are not alone." Isabella tried to nod though her eyes were still damp, knowing she should take courage in what her grandmother said as she wiped at the tears staining her cheeks. She had Sheil. Though she chafed beneath the former nursemaid's care, Isabella knew Sheil's concern for her came from genuine love and affection.
Only, Marie was shaking her white head, her gaze both knowing and sad as she spoke. "You mistake my meaning, ma fille, though the servant loves you like her own." When she shook her head again, the motion was rueful. "The gentleman with black eyes—he hides much but you need not fear him."
Isabella's head rose, her eyes wide and dry with disbelief. But Marie merely regarded her calmly, as though nothing were amiss in her mentioning a man Isabella knew the older woman could not have possibly met, nor expressing her trust in his character.
Marie continued, undeterred by Isabella's shocked expression. "If you remember this, all will be well."
