The Playwright: The Escapades of JM
Barrie
Chapter 9
To See A Horse On A Horse
Notes/Thoughts: I got my calendar down for this chapter so I could get it mathematically correct on the dates. (Yes it is the 2004 calendar, but I didn't feel like pulling a 1904 calendar out of the air) I had in my Chapter 9 summary below here (which you can't see) that I wanted this to happen a few weeks later. But upon looking at the calendar, if it had happened a few weeks later, then I would have missed Christmas! Couldn't do THAT! So a week later was four days from Christmas which was perfect. Another thing I realized, Sylvia didn't die until 1910, and the first performance of Peter Pan was in December 1904. I could change this error, but I choose not to, because I think you get the drift. Anyway - any more notes or thoughts I'll put at the bottom.
Tinkerbell (James's horse) : h t t p / w w w . w i s t e r i a m i n i h o r s e r a n c h . c o m / p i c t u r e s / K i t t e n 2 . j p g (copy and paste into browser and delete the spaces to view)
BARRIEFACT: Following a performance of Peter Pan one evening, a small boy who had been given a seat in the author's box was asked which bit he had liked the most. "What I think I liked best," the child replied, "was tearing up the program and dropping the bits on people's heads!" This was one of JM Barrie's favorite stories.
BONUS BARRIEFACT: My dad was born on May 9th, the same date as JM Barrie's birthday.
JOHNNYFACT: Shortly after the release of Pirates of the Caribbean, Johnny Depp was appraoched by a fan. "This old lady came up to me," he recalled. "A beautiful old lady. She gives me this big smile and she says, 'I just loved you in Pirates of Penzance!'"
Sorry, everyone, for the delayed update. Here's a good long chapter for you, then. :-)
OoOoO
December 20, 1904
Just four days until Christmas! I've already gotten a few things set aside for the boys, but for Emma...that's going to be quite a task, I think. I'm never quite sure what she'd like or dislike, though I'd bargain that she would dislike anything that was given to her by my hands. She's such an old bat. She needs to realize that times are changing. I think that's her problem. She's so busy living how she grew up when she was a child, and isn't flexible with change. I should give her some credit, I know; she loves her grandchildren and wishes to take care of them. I don't see that as a problem. And she didn't drag me into moving either. I'm only doing this for the boys because I want to, and because they want me to. If it wasn't for them, I am completely certain I would not be living with her on my own, though if it wasn't for her, I know that I would still have the boys living with me, but...never mind, I'm not sure how to explain it all.
Rehearsals have been going exceptionally well lately, and Charles can't stop raving to me, to the actors, and to his friends, about how good it is. "Did you like the first performances?" He's been saying, "Well, if you liked the first ones, you'll like this next one that much more - I guarantee it!" It's all quite amusing.
Sylvia's diary has gone unread (and quite frankly, this journal unwritten in) the past week. I've been so busy with those three hour rehearsals, (that crackpot idea, I'm unsure how I obliged) and coming home to the boys nagging me to go back home and complaining about Emma, that headaches have come more frequently and so has tiredness. My (I should say Sylvia's) bed looks better to me every night, and even at rehearsals, I can't direct my attention from the idea of sleep, back to Captain Hook sneaking into the hideout to poison Peter's medicine. It's easy to let your mind wander during that scene, because Gerald does such a fine job with walking in through a hole, tipping a bottle over another bottle, putting a finger to an evil grin on his lips, and squeezing back through the hole again, and Nina, with laying in a bed completely still, that there's no need for me to ask anything of them. Sometimes I ask for a run-through of that scene (with of course many objections from the other ten plus actors) just to take a break from directing anything. I laughed the other day, actually; I heard snoring from somewhere in the theater. You can't tell from where because of the acoustics, but at first I thought it was that Nina had fallen asleep onstage, though the sound was too deep to be a woman's. So I looked back and Charles had fallen asleep! I called the Redskins onstage to wake him up. I think he was a bit embarrassed after that.
Peter (Davies, that is) hasn't had many complaints about school lately. I'm sure there's an occasional poke at him from someone, but other than that, I've actually seen him smile more often. He did give names of the four boys to the headmaster, and the headmaster himself phoned each of their parents. I would imagine that they wouldn't be thrilled at all, and now I see that I was correct. He told me the other night before I tucked him in, (Peter) with a smile, that one of the boys ran away from him that day. We shared a laugh (more of a snicker) about that.
Charles is so confident about Peter Pan, that for some reason, along with that 500 pounds of weight on his shoulders, he's willing to add on another 500 for my new play! He phoned me the other day that the Open Casting Call would be Wednesday (or, tomorrow). He wanted it to be before Christmas, because he thinks that "the actors coming will already be awake and alert because of stress from the Holidays," but not after Easter, oh no, he would be too tired to start another project then. I'm not sure when he wants rehearsals to be for it, but if he suggests doing a rehearsal a day for both Peter Pan and my new play, then I must smack him upside the head with a wooden paddle or something, because I'm not sure that either of us could stay alive for six hours of rehearsal every day.
Today the boys have a day off from school (don't ask me why. I don't think there's some special holiday today that I haven't been informed of) and I asked Charles to put a notice outside of the theater to inform the actors of a day off from rehearsal. I'm glad to get a chance to spend time with the boys...though they're inside the house now sleeping.
Shite, this is getting long. And Emma's coming out. Quick signoff from me.
-JMB
Tuesday (a week after Peter's incident)
"Mr. Barrie, what in heavens name are you doing up there?" Mrs. du Maurier looked up into the tree that James was sitting in. He was sitting in the crook where branch meets trunk, his legs going up the diagonally growing branch and ending in crossed ankles. (His legs, not the branch) It was a wonder he didn't fall off.
James looked around, then took a peek down at the grass, and back at Emma. "Writing," he said innocently.
"In a tree?"
"Yes, ma'am." He nodded. She sniffed.
"Will you be up there all day? The boys are off from school. You keep telling me how you never get to spend time with them. Why don't you take advantage of the situation while you can?"
"I will." James closed his journal and looked off toward the city, hoping Emma would leave, but she persisted to stay.
"I went to my dressing table and looked out my window, and it nearly scared me half to the grave to see a man in my tree. I almost instantly realized it was you, though," she added as an afterthought.
"I'm not sure if that was a compliment or an insult, Mrs. du Maurier."
"Neither am I. But I did wonder...how do you stay up there?"
"Being one of ten children, you get used to scrambling up trees to hide." James smiled. "I used to stay up in the tree in the yard through supper and watch the sunset. My mother always knew where I was, I think. Either that or she didn't care. It was a long time ago. So, I got the balance." Emma gave him a confused look.
"You really are odd." James smiled again, and looked at the house.
"The boys still asleep?"
"Yes, they are. I didn't think it ideal to wake them up on a day off when they could rest and be fresh to learn tomorrow if they sleep."
"Sounds like something you would do."
"I'm not sure that was a compliment or an insult, Mr. Barrie," Emma said sardonically. "And even though it sounds like something you would do, to be in a tree, that is, in the winter, I think it's a complete waste of a day."
"Then what do you propose I do until the children wake up?" James asked, holding his pen between his middle and index fingers and tapping the butt of it on the smooth black leather of his journal. Emma thought a bit.
"I wonder...it might take a bit longer than the time it does for the boys to wake up, but I can tell Moyra to let the boys in on where we are..."
"What did you have in mind?"
"Have you ever ridden a horse, Mr. Barrie?" James looked at her, amused and puzzled, and thought for a bit.
"No," he said.
"Have you ever thought about riding a horse? God knows you can stand the smell; you persist to keep that mangy thing in the house..."
"No, I havent, actually," James replied, ignoring the second comment. Emma smiled at this, and not her usual mocking, sarcastic smile, but a bit of a pleasurable one, one that didn't make the wrinkles in her face appear as craters, and the shimmery gloss over her eyes dull.
"We'll be taking a bit of a trip then. Get down from there, and meet me inside in ten minutes. You may go as you are, you'll be changing once we arrive."
OoOoO
"I'm quite certain, Mrs. du Maurier, that these jacket sleeves are too long," James said, showing the older woman, who was dressed snugly in white pants and her own red jacket, her hair pinned up tightly onto her head, that the sleeve of his own jacket nearly reached his fingertips.
"And the pants," he pulled the excess fabric away from his skin, "A bit baggy..."
"Roll them up," she said, a slight roll to her 'r'. "We can get you a vest though; come." She walked, and he followed, looking like a little boy having made a mistake and ordered from the tailor the size clothing his older brother wore.
"My family has owned these stables for years. Obviously the horses have changed, but the property remains in the du Maurier family. This is currently the home of four award winning steeds, five others, and two in training, making a grand total of eleven horses. It is one of the largest stables owned privately, in, or outside of London.
"My great-great-grandfather, whom was greatly admired by both my family and the community of the time, developed an interest in the subject, and after he died, my great-great-grandmother decided to carry on the tradition of owning stables in a remembrance of him, and accepted them when he gave them to her in his will. They've been passed down ever since, and now they're mine. Quite unfortunately, Sylvia has of course gone, and Gerald has no interest in owning horses or anything to do with them, so I'm afraid this entire property may have to be sold or auctioned after I die." James nodded, looking around the snowy atmosphere. The two stepped up onto a roofed porch attached to one of the stables.
"Here we are." Mrs. du Maurier opened a cupboard next to a frosted window, and a cloud of dust escaped from it. Behind it were three red hats, matching the three vests hanging below them. Each one was embroidered the same way, and the same as the jackets that were at the time being worn by both (soon to be singularly worn) Mrs. du Maurier and James. There was fancy gold ribbon circling the arm holes, waist, and lining the V-neck. Handsome gold buttons were used to fasten it, and though dusty, the red was still unbelievably defined. Emma pulled out the smallest one, and waited as James handed her the baggy jacket, pulled on and buttoned the vest over his white puffy sleeved shirt and red tie, replaced his pocket watch into it, and rolled up his pant legs.
"Are we ready?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Let's go and get the horses, then, shall we?"
The pair went around to the back of the stable where two large doors opened to the field. Emma slid one door open sideways, while James struggled with the other, and the two made their way inside.
"I have hired a crew to take care of the horses and the stables while I'm home in the city, though I still come up here occasionally to check on the condition of the property. This summer I'll be sending off money to various specialty workers to keep up the property for preservational and cosmetic purposes nonetheless." They walked down the left row, and Mrs. du Maurier laid her white-gloved hand on the top of the split door to one stable and looked at James.
"This one will be yours." She pointed at the white, brown spotted horse inside, and unlatched the door. She called to the horse's attention and took it out in front of James. He crouched down and looked underneath it.
"Female..." he absently made note, hesitantly straightening himself, wondering to himself why he performed such an action. "Does she have a name?"
"No, actually, she doesn't. We're using the unprepared horses this morning. These are the five that won't be going to compete this Spring." Emma looked at him. "I don't see any harm in letting you name her; no one else will." James put his hands behind his back, walking around the animal, who gave him an innocent, precious glance. He smiled, and began to speak.
"If the word 'Tinkerbell' slips from your mouth, James..." James suddenly frowned.
"I thought there was no harm in me naming her." Emma frowned as well, and the two stared at each other. "Fine," she said after a while, hating to have her own words used against her. The newly named Tinkerbell looked at Emma, and when James called her by name, she turned her head to face him.
"She knows her name already, look at that. Come on, Tinkerbell." He and the horse joyfully walked out onto the path, seemingly both all smiles. Mrs. du Maurier didn't scoff, but instead shook her head and fetched her own horse.
Emma explained the commands to James, and he nodded, listening to every word. After all, he wasn't very enthusiastic about falling off of the horse into the snow. Mrs. du Maurier then instructed him how to mount, and he looked at Tinkerbell, who faithfully stood in the snow, not moving at all. After a few moments of waiting patiently, though, she moved her head, blinked at him, and grunted softly, her lips flapping about. James smiled. Mrs. du Maurier cleared her throat, and he directed his attention to her once more.
"Watch, James," she said. "Just step up, stand up, and swing your leg over the side." She was now on her own horse, which, naturally, was white, and blended in almost perfectly with the fallen snow on the ground. "Go on, don't be afraid." She looked forward, and added tartly, "Or do I have to lift you up there myself?" James and Tinkerbell exchanged glances again, and he proceeded in grabbing onto the saddle and stepping onto the stirrup. He tried to get up, and tried again, and following a nervous sniff from Emma and a glance around to make sure no one was watching, James finally got himself up, swung his leg over, and let himself fall. Mrs. du Maurier smiled when his eye twitched, and when he gave her a half re-assuring grin.
"Get used to it, Mr. Barrie. Once we get moving, you'll see what I mean." James scratched his neck and subconsciously stroked Tinkerbell's mane. "Now..." he began, adjusting himself and making himself comfortable on the seat and back against the cantle, "How do I steer?"
"Oh, you won't need to steer much," Emma said nonchalantly. Did James sense a challenge? "But in case you're heading for a tree or something, you move the reins to touch the right side of your horse to turn left, and to the left side to turn right. Although it would be quite amusing to see you launch into a maple tree."
"I'm sure it would be, Mrs. du Maurier."
"Oh, and the horse will know by itself when to jump."
"Pardon?" James said uneasily. Emma only smiled and looked ahead of them. This was all clearly amusing in itself.
"Remember this as well: while you're sitting in the saddle, James, stay loose and in a comfortable position. You don't want to accidentally pull the reins when you're riding at full speed. She'll stop, and you most likely will find yourself flat against that tree we were speaking about.
"Now get yourself ready, keep your eyes ahead, and when I say "Go," hit your heels on the side of the horse. Ready?"
"Yes."
"Good - Go!" Emma took off fast, snow blasting into Tinkerbell's face. She whinnied and stepped back a few steps. Unexpecting, James wobbled a bit and watched Mrs. du Maurier ride off.
"Alright then, Tink. If it's a challenge she wants, it's a challenge she'll get. Come on, girl, let's show her what we're made of." James hit his heels against her - not too hard - though hard enough to get the signal across, and she began running, gradually increasing in speed. James tried not to look down, but ahead. The two of them were moving fast across the field, faster and faster. His heart was racing, and he began feeling unsure to be afraid to loosen his grip on the reins, or to be afraid that he would fall off. Or of neither.
He noticed that his eyes weren't fully opened, and when he did open them, he chanced a look around the field, and what he saw was magnificent. The sounds of Tinkerbell's hooves against the snow covered grass, and the sounds of the wind whipping in his ears faded out and James could hear nothing. Peaceful, quiet, beautiful. He felt lighter now. He straightened himself in the saddle, and relaxed. But he had to concentrate. He had to pass Emma. He looked ahead to see her a few meters away, and cracked the reins lightly, feeling the horse accelerate again. He was catching up.
Emma glanced over her shoulder, noticing this as well, and cracked her own horse's reins to speed up. James smiled. How exciting this was! And the cold - oh, there was no cold at all. James's skin tingled with warmth, the icy wind that was slashing his face and tangling his hair only cooling down his body. Tinkerbell was going faster than ever now, and the playwright realized that he and the old woman were neck in neck (or their horses, rather). He had a flash of a thought then: "A horse on a horse." That made him laugh loudly, even over the sound of the eight hooves on snowy ground. Emma heard this, and glanced over at him.
"What's so funny, Mr. Barrie?" she shouted.
"I'm winning!" James shouted back excitedly, laughing again, and pulling ahead of Mrs. du Maurier.
OoOoO
Peter sighed at the sight, and closed James's door quietly. His Uncle Jim had fallen fast asleep on his bed, his arm limply resting around the enormous Porthos, whom, next to James, looked like a giant. The boy looked at the clock in the hallway, seeing that it was only noon. Of course people needed their sleep, and he respected that, but he'd been wanting to spend time with his Uncle Jim as of late, and today seemed like the perfect day for it. But of course, there was the man sleeping in his bed.
The other boys were outside playing in the snow, but Peter didn't intend on doing anything of that sort. He, though having calmed down since George stood up for him that day a week ago, still tried to stay out of trouble. It was difficult to have fun when so many people in that time were having so many problems in their lives, and his mother and father both being away from him. There was so much on his mind for him to mentally grieve about, that he didn't have space in in his head for thinking about anything fun. He put his journal under his arm and began to walk downstairs, deciding to go out back to the frozen pond to sit on the bench there and write."Peter, darling, there you are. Why aren't you outside with your brothers?" Emma du Maurier intercepted him at the stairs, and Peter just blinked at her as though the answer was the most obvious in the world. Emma stared at him for a while, remembering one serious conversation the previous Wednesday she had had with James in hushed tones regarding Peter, after the boys had gone to bed.
"Well, come on then, would you like to do something with Grandmother? We could find something to do inside." Peter didn't like this style of speech she was using with him. He knew talking in the first person meant baby-talk. He was most certainly not a child, and much less a baby.
"No, thank you, Grandmother," he muttered to the carpet. "I was going to go outside to the pond and write." Mrs. du Maurier was unusually patient.
"Alright then, dear. If you change your mind, you'll know where I'll be." She placed a comforting hand on his chocolate haired head, and began to walk away, not forgetting to throw in a warning to "dress warmly" over her shoulder.
OoOoO
Winter (soon to be Spring, hopefully) 1904
I had a day off from school today. Uncle Jim and Grandmother went out this morning. I still don't know where they went, and I'm awfully curious to know where they could have gone to bond so much so that she's allowing him to sleep away the good hours of the day. He may wake later so that we could do something together, but it seems like a waste of a day when we (my brothers and I) could be doing something together. Preferably, though, just he and I doing something, but I didn't want to sound selfish.
Grandmother still acts towards me as though I am a child. I am not a child anymore. Children live bewildered by the world, and have not seen such tragedies as death and dying. And children, even if they have, do not comprehend the meaning. I do, for I am not a child. That is all I have to say on that subject.
Christmas is coming in a few days. I'm excited, yet a bit worried. I'll have to write or draw something for everyone else, unless Uncle Jim takes each one of us out shopping individually one day. I do not know what to get Grandmother. I suppose she may be satisfied if she was given a day to be spent in her own company. I do wish
"Hello, Peter." Peter looked up from his journal abruptly, to see James, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, coming toward him around the edge of the pond. Obviously he had already awoken from his nap.
"Hello," Peter responded quietly, closing his book around the pen that he had held in his hand. "I hadn't discovered this pond until just yesterday." James nodded. "It seemed to be a good place to get away."
"Aye," he said, and took a look around. When he was at a loss for words, though still having enough time to recover the conversation so it would not end without having to be continued awkwardly moments later, he said simply, "It's a bit veiled by the snow, isn't it?"
"It is," Peter said absently, pulling his thumb nail down the ends of the pages of his book just under the binding. It made a quiet scratching noise.
"I suppose...it's iced over." James stood. "I believe it's cold enough for it to be completely frozen over without brittle areas in the covering. It's not too large, anyway, so it would be easier to freeze...
"Let's see then, shall we?" Peter smiled, watching the man do his work as though it was the most dutiful task in the world. James stepped over to the edge of the pond, bent over, and brushed the snow off of the ice with his glove. He smiled triumphantly, seeing his reflection in the perfectly clear, frozen over water. He straightened himself, and turned to look at Peter. "Eh?" he said simply. Peter giggled a few times, then stood up when his guardian held his arm out toward him. The boy walked over to him, and closed his fingers around James's gloved hand. And the two stepped onto the ice. Carefully, slowly, aware of what could happen to them if they had approached to aggressively.
"Careful," James reminded, and Peter didn't mind, as he would have if his grandmother had said it. His smile lingered on his face, and they began to walk, then to glide. Soon they were effortlessly slipping about the ice, laughing and tripping and falling, and having fun. And for a moment Peter forgot the "important things." He didn't mean to, but he did nonetheless. Because however important those things were, this was important, this was now, this was here, and this was him.
December 1904
Life is like a pond. When it's warm out, you take a swim. And when it's cold, you walk on the ice.
OoOoO
James settled down to read again. He considered reading six entries tonight so he could catch up easier, but resigned himself to just two, and tucked himself into bed, drawing an oil lamp closer to the edge of the bedside table in order to see better. When the house was completely quiet, he opened the book, listening to the familiar cracking of the spine, and continued where he left off.
October 8, 1872
Gerald got the lead in the school play today. I am very envious of him. Auditions were last week, before my birthday, and today I found that I was cast as the hideous old house maid! There it was, right underneath the big important: Gerald du Maurier Gidgeon Hsvedel my name was written less carefully: Sylvia Jocelyn du Maurier Mrs. Hart. I'm nearly far too sick to write about this anymore.
Mother and I are going to the Balsons's picnic tomorrow. There's this boy that's a cousin of theirs, Arthur Luwellin Davies, who's always chasing me around anytime we go to anything for the Balsons. Once at a party, I was going to take a swim in the creek, and I turned around and saw him watching me undress! He got a good smacking for that one. My mother still thinks he's a pig. Gerald jokes that we'll get married someday. I find that highly unlikely.
Mother's calling me down to supper. I'll tell you all about the picnic tomorrow.
October 10, 1872
I apologize for not writing yesterday. The Balsons visited after the picnic and stayed 'til late. Mr. and Mrs. Balson's 14 year old daughter, Martha, didn't speak to me once. She sat across the room from me with her arms crossed the entire time, sitting up completely straight in her yellow puffy-sleeved dress with the darts on the chest to accommodate her unusually large breasts. She's very disturbing, that Martha.
I didn't see Arthur once at the picnic. I found myself actually being disappointed. I asked Mrs. Llewelyn-Davies where he was once I had searched the entire lawn for him, and she told me that he was home with a horrible fever. I may go and visit him tomorrow. I don't know why I would, except I feel bad for him. He'll have wanted to see me anyway. Other than that, I watched Martha Balson eat a salad during the picnic. She eats like a bird! Honestly, who takes such little bites? I went right ahead and dug into my turkey sandwich. I didn't care if I had anything on my nose.
Today was uneventful for the most part. Gerald shot a squirrel with his slingshot and showed it to Mother, who nearly toppled over on her friend, Mrs. Harvey. I told him he was a dirty rotten creature and if I could, I would shoot him with a slingshot.
I think I'll go to sleep now. I'm awfully tired. I'll write tomorrow, I promise.
A/N: So I fall asleep in my mom's bed after watching Big Daddy with her one night, and my dad comes home from work and up to bed at 3:30 AM and kicks me out, and into my own room. I laid there for a while, then read some articles in PC Magazine, and by that time it was 5 AM, and I had an extreme urge to write, so I went downstairs to my computer in the living room to do so. This is how weird I am. Though I did find someone else on my MSN messenger buddylist to talk to surprisingly! And even more surprisingly, it was 5:42 where ever she was too!
Another note: James's ditty about life being like a pond came from my brain. I felt I needed to mention that because I use a lot of his quotes in here, but that wasn't one of them.
Review replies are below as always - give me some more to reply to!
REVIEW REPLIES FOR CHAPTER 8:
(and 1 and 2)
oi-oi-oi: "Toe-curlingly good!" I've never heard that one before! I'm so glad you've stayed with me on this since the very first chapter! I really do appreciate things like that! Thank you as always for reading and reviewing, it makes me so happy to learn that I've kept my readers and they have nothing but good things to say about me and my story in their reviews! There's lots more coming, so keep a look out! I was so happy to see your review and that you had gotten some time to read the ones you missed:-)
KatrinaKaiba: You take JM away, you DIE, woman! You know how I feel about that! (crushed) Thanks for readin az alwayz.
Strange-Torpedo: Yup, Peter did have those problems as a child. When I found that fact, I thought it would be a good add-in subplot to my story. Writing Sylvia as an eight year old has been interesting. After reading things over, there are very short sentences, but if I read them to myself in the way Sylvia (as an eight year old, that is) would read it to someone, then it sounds right. I wanted things in her diary that James didn't know about; just little details that he'd be interested in, and be shocked to find out. I wasn't sure about putting in her discovery of death early on in James's reading of the diary, but I decided that I should...although it sort of made that chapter even sadder than it already was, resulting in a complete Drama theme, save for the little James/Charles Frohman (no, I do not mean slash) ditty in there about him not being able to read. Gosh, I looked back and saw you at first read all 7 of my chapters - and then kept up and read chapter 8 as well! I applaud you! haha. Thank you so much, I hope you enjoyed Chapter 9 - there's more to come ;-)
H.M. Chandler: I'll be keepin' up the keepin' up! hah..thanks again for the review! And the diary idea...wrote it on a whim...usually things like that come to me long before I actually get a chance to write them. ...Like the horse idea! I was so glad to finally write this chapter! I hope you enjoyed it!
Ari: I'm confused about your confusion. Read over your review and rephrase it for me cuz I got really confused. hahaha. Anywho, I'm glad u like muh story :-) luv ya az always.
froggerwisegurl: (for chapter 1) I hope I can see you on Mugglenet again so that I can get you to read Chapters 2-8! I'm really really glad you liked Chapter 1, though!
Danielle: (for chapter 1) I'm assuming this is that one person from Mugglenet as well...and I know that you probably won't get to read this but I want to thank you anyway haha.
ForeverInUrArms: (for chapters 1 and 2) Hahaha thank you, I hope you finish it! I'm glad you're likin so far:-)
