And here we get a glimpse into the current lives of my OC's—hopefully you remember them. ;) I would love some feedback, good or bad. Gimme gimme gimme a review (after midniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiight). Pleases and thank-yous. Titel taken from a great song that you should know. I just kind of heard it as I was writing this chapter, even though the lyrics aren't parallel to the story.
Chapter 2: This Could Be Paradise
Paint touched the rough canvas, and color brightened the dull background. The artist pulled the brush along, dabbing here and there on her pallet before once again bringing her brush up to the nearly-covered cloth. She was creating a scene that she hoped would be pleasing to all passerby: a great, mighty ship with billowing sails rolling upwards with the spiraling waves. Most of all, she wanted the receiver of this gift to like it—her husband, Archie Kennedy.
Catherine Kennedy, affectionately known by her friends as Cat, could not wait for Christmas. The nearing holiday would bring home her husband as well as be a cause of much celebration. Life had not been the busiest for her lately, which most wouldn't mind, but Cat found herself restless. She needed to do something, to be useful somehow. It was most improper to ask the servants if she could take part in their daily activities, but the cook had understood. The woman had even let her help her with the dishes in the evenings once in a while. Archie would have been horrified, but Cat knew that it would forever be a secret between the help and herself.
There was no need for Cat to work, cook, or clean. It was clear to be seen that Archie Kennedy had money—lots of it. His mother had long ago remarried after his father's death, and lived comfortably outside of Bristol nearby to his older sister, Clara, and her husband, Robert Brown. Archie, as the oldest male, had inherited his father's house and a great deal of endowment. His younger sister, Mary, remained at home with them. She was still young, a child really, and had not yet had a beau to claim her. So, she spent her days reading, drawing, and entertaining herself.
Cat had found a great confidant in Mary. Mary, unlike her elder sister, was fond of Cat. Both girls, being very interested in art, were able to trade techniques and discuss different methods of creating. One had shared her new paintbrushes and conversation, the other her friendship and expertise. Mary was much like Archie in the sense that she was unassuming in everything, finding most everyone to be pleasant and amiable until proven otherwise. The two got on very well, and kept each other company when Archie was away. To Mary, in addition to being a friend—which she had desperately sought after her sister had married—Cat was also fascinating. Countless hours she was entertained by Cat's tales of America, and of all the places, people, and cultures Mary had always dreamed of experiencing but knew she never would.
Archie's older sister, however, had a different personality entirely, Cat had found. Clara had a very aristocratic way of thinking. Her marriage to a rich gentleman had influenced what she now held in importance. Then again, she had always been partial to finery and renowned social status. In viewing her fellow man, she remained aloof. Cat was no exception to this perception. Her brother could have done much better, Clara thought, and he was foolish to marry a girl so far out of his class. Yes, Cat was sincere, and yes, Cat was certainly beautiful, but she lacked both wealth and family—two things that Clara thought to be of the utmost importance for any spouse to have. Because of these two things, Clara was snippy, to say the least, whenever she happened to converse with Cat. Clara was nearly thirty, and had been married for five years. Still, Archie had yet to become an uncle. Cat suspected that Clara was unable to have children easily, and this misfortune perhaps added to her unfriendly attitude. So, she was thus able to forgive Clara's less-than-warm welcome every time she greeted her.
Needless to say, the Browns and the Kennedys did not often dine together, despite their close relation. They had politely turned down Cat's offer to host their family for Christmas, giving the old age of Archie's mother as an excuse. No offer to spend the holidays with the Browns had been sent, so Cat was left to presume she would be without family for the Cat was not used to people not liking her, and it did hurt her that she was written off as a fool just because she had never used more than three utensils per meal, or learned how to hold a fan properly.
There was that, and the fact that she was not even from this time period that kept Cat from perfectly conforming to the mold of an average upperclass wife in the early 1800's. No one, of course, knew that—save Lottie and Amy, her two closest confidants, and future companions. During the several years she had spent living in the world of the 1800's, memories of her former life had continued to slip away. Now, she could scarcely distinguish a memory of her former life from a nonsensical daydream.
Nevertheless, her origin had left her with a strange vocabulary she could neither escape nor explain. Archie shrugged it off as her being American, but Mary knew she was different. The girl wasn't suspicious—she just blamed it on Cat's "yankee" upbringing. Mary had ended up being an excellent teacher of how the British world worked in the nineteenth century. Cat's slight, but unhidden pronunciation made Mary giggle, telling her that it made her sound Irish. At first, Cat was flattered. Where she had come from, Irish heritage—and accents—were regarded warmly. It was only later she learned that the Irish in this time were not favored by society, and those with unmistakable accents hid them.
Her life here was certainly that of the well-off upper class. Archie was always coming home with "treats" for the only women in his life—Mary and Cat. A new parasol, or a new book, even some foreign coins once. Cat did appreciate the things he bought her, and the comforts she could enjoy here at their estate a few miles outside of Tisbury. But part of her loathed spending her days being so idle—especially when her forever friends Amanda and Charlotte working busily for hard-earned money—Amy as an stage actress in London and Lottie as a tavern server in Southampton.
Most of the upper-class would scare acknowledge the lower classes—those who actually had to do labor in order to eat. Socializing—inviting them into your house as friends was preposterous. And keeping in contact with an actress was just as immoral. Her upbringing in America had taught her differently than how people behaved in England.
Thus, she kept in contact with Amy and Lottie, despite her sister-in-law's constant poo-pooing. Their shared journey across the Atlantic and back aboard the Renown, captained by the paranoid and insane Captain Sawyer, was an experience too large to disregard. It would keep them friends forever, no matter how different their situations, occupations, and social statuses were. And besides, Cat reasoned, all of them would be mothers sooner or later—yes, even the independent Amy, someday—and after that, why would it matter who had more money? Money would come for them in time, she was certain. So she let her peers judge her, not caring what they thought.
The last year had gone in a blur. The three had managed to see each other, lamenting on their common woes, and reminiscing on shared times. Visits never came soon enough, and they never lasted as long as they would have liked. Though Amy was often bogged down with rehearsals, she wrote to her friends continually. Her letters were enormous and drama-filled—just the way that her friends liked them. Cat loved reading letters from her friends. Lottie, living just a day's journey from Cat, visited as often as she was able to, though her work at the tavern often left her grounded in Southampton. Cat refused to have her beloved friend pay for such an expense—oftentimes she would send her own chaise-and-four after Lottie, and sometimes to Amy as well. For certain plays, Lottie and Cat even managed to see their friend preform, which Amy was always thrilled with. Cat had invited both girls to come here for the fast approaching holidays, knowing the odds were that all three of them would be husbandless.
Lottie had been the first to get married, in Jamaica, right after the trial that decided the fate of the Renown's lieutenants. Over the course of the next year, Amy had married—aboard the Hotspur, a ceremony preformed by Horatio on their journey back to England—and then finally, Cat and Archie later that summer. Of the three, Cat and Archie's wedding had been by far the most elaborate. His sister had insisted on helping plan it, and though Archie flushed and said again and again how there was no need to make such a big fuss, it turned out to be a fairly large reception. A wedding was just about the only exciting thing that had happened to the people recently, Clara had said. It was cause enough for a "big fuss". So they had not gotten married as soon as Archie would have liked, but Cat was able to get acquainted with those who would shortly become her family, and familiarize herself with the area beforehand.
When Cat remembered that moment, she realized how little she had taken in of her surroundings that day. She remembered little of the church, the priest, the ceremony, or the gifts. All that came to mind was the thrill that had descended down her spine as they had sealed their fate with that kiss. Later on, she could remember twirling in endless circles of ecstasy as the music, the people, and the chatter faded into the background, hands clasped with Archie, her silver ring gleaning in the candlelight.
Realizing her train of thought had made her painting come to a stand-still, she blinked out of her trance, once again dabbing the paintbrush to the canvas. He would be coming home very soon, he had last written her, he believed, even in time for Christmas, and staying through the first two weeks of January. This Cat had laughed aloud at. Archie was always teasing, always optimistic—but surely he lacked the capability of predicting such an outcome. Cat knew that the chance of his actually being home in time for a real holiday for longer than a few days was a rare occurrence in the navy. But she understood that, she was a navy wife. And the chance that he would actually be home before Christmas was even more rare. One could only travel so fast by sea, weather and God allowing.
But still, she thought, as she continued to make her picture come to life: she had better finish his present ahead of time, just to be safe.
The actress bowed, none too modestly, before making her way off stage. The crowd had been responsive tonight, their performance the best one, and final one. There had been cheers rather than groans, and applause rather than rotten fruit. The actors and actresses shuffled backstage and into the back rooms, chattering freely now that the show was over, and there was nothing to be nervous about. The dancers babbled and bickered about who a certain gentleman near the front at been looking at, and who he was. The leads talked more conservatively, laughing about their mistakes, which now seemed so trivial, and recalling the many unique things that had occurred during the show.
Amanda Bush quickly changed out of her costume, eager to return to her normal, simpler attire. It had been an awful, gaudy garment this time. Part of her wondered if had been chosen just to annoy her. After all, she was rather outspoken backstage—too outspoken for some people's taste. Too tired to wash off her stage makeup, she decided to leave it on. Calling goodnights and well-wishes to her colleagues, she made her way to the coat-rack to grab her cloak.
"Allow me to escort you back home, Amy?" a voice said behind her, and she turned. It was one of the minor actors, who had always been rather accepting of Amy—despite her often rude outburst and lack of delicacy. He was a proper gentleman, and genuinely cared about her safe return to her house. Amy often referred to him as a sweetheart, much to the grumbling to her husband—who preferred that term to be in reference to himself, and not another member of the male species.
"As always, dear Colin," she replied, allowing him to hold open her cloak for her as she slid her arms inside its sleeves. Not because she couldn't handle the streets of London herself, of course, but it did make her feel secure having a male person to walk back with her down and to the left where her she lived. And yes, Bush knew about him. It wasn't a secret affair or casual flirtation. It wasn't, well, much of anything really. Bush grumbled, and pretended to be jealous, but deep down he knew her safety was important, and Amy assured him that the man in question had interest in things other than women, namely, her.
Placing her hood over her head, Amy linked arms comfortably with her escort. Colin was an eccentric, but very talented. He was often told he should be able to move on to even bigger companies, but his low class birth kept him confined to mediocre acting troupes such as this. She had found a great friend in Colin, especially since he was not near as envious or quick to discriminate as many of the dancers and actresses were. It had always been more easy for Amy to befriend boys than girls, this situation was no different. They were simpler, and easier to figure out, Amy thought. Girls were complicated, gossiping and over-analyzing things to death—it made her want to scream.
Not to say she didn't have any close girl friends. Despite the distance and traumas the faced, she had remained friends with Cat and Lottie—her two closest friends, practically sisters. When it came to seeking advice, or wanting to rant about a particular hardship, Cat and Lottie were the ones she sought out.
It had been a particular draining show this time, and Amy was entirely enervated. How she longed to curl up in her warm bed, away from the energy and the noise, and sleep. And seeing as tomorrow she had off, she could allow herself the luxury of sleeping in.
"You're sure this isn't out of your way?" she asked teasingly, to which he replied,
"No, of course not. I'm going the same way," with a winkle in his eyes.
This was a running joke between them. Both of them knew that Colin lived in the opposite direction, though he had lied about this at first to save Amy some embarrassment. Ever since then, she had made a point to tease him at ever opportunity about it.
After saying goodnight to her escort, she made her way up the stairs and to the right, where her rooms were. Candles were lit the hallway, undoubtedly by her landlord, and she used one to light up the room. It wasn't the largest of apartments, but it suited her.
"Tom?" she called into the now lit room, and she sighed as silence answered her. She was alone tonight, again.
Thomas Bush, the younger brother of her husband, lived with them here in London. The man, or boy rather, had studied law at the college and upon graduating had been deemed to be a lawyer. But now, a year later, he had done little in the ways of employing himself. He had managed a few cases here or there, but overall his career had been somewhat of a flop. The other ways he had spent his time were not, in Amy's opinion, justifiable. Too many times she had come home to a cold house, while Tom and an acquaintance—all too often a female—huddled around the dining table, laughing and babbling over too much wine.
But William loved his little brother, despite his laziness and failures, and thus Tom stayed. Amy, however, was not as forgiving. She had banished him and his "friends" to the back rooms, though she suspected he broke this rule when she wasn't home, and had found a lady''s handkerchief or two that she knew for certain wasn't hers. Somehow, though, he managed never to be caught, leaving Amy suspicious whenever she came home and found him supposedly sober, playing a solitary game of cards in his room. Honestly. And people talked about the vulgarity and wickedness of the theatre! There was vulgarity enough among normal people in society. Men.
But not all men were like Tom, she knew. Her husband was not, and though she had not realized it right away, she knew now that she had been lucky. Since her arrival in London, she had heard all too many horror stories of mistreatment from actresses and dancers. There was a time when she would not have hesitated in ending a relationship if her significant other did not suit her. But here, in this time, in this world, things were not so easily changed.
Bush had never treated her ill, never forced her to anything, never given her much grief other than his usual bantering. Sure, he was often grumpy, complained relentlessly, and they bickered about trivial matters, but overall, her marriage was very blessed. And although she was hard to please, and somewhat high-maintenance, she knew that Bush knew that he had been very blessed to have her as his wife as well. They weren't much of a mushy-lovey couple, as some couples insisted on being—Archie, she heard, was apparently known for his ridiculously sappy love letters to Cat, and it appeared to be very hard for Wellard and Lottie to keep their hands off of each other, even when in public. But their love for each other was real, she and he both knew this, even if both of them liked to play hard-to-get once in awhile.
As she prepared herself for bed, Amy reviewed the play in her head, humming the theme that had gone along with it. Theatre in this world was like none that she had ever experienced in her lifetime. There was a real live orchestra, playing original compositions. There were no microphones, no lightbulbs. All sound reverberated through the well-thought out dimensions of the theater. The drudgery of rehearsals was heavy. There were many sleepless nights, and times when she was yelled at constantly by her superiors. But everything led up to the week of performances, and that was worth all the pain in the world. It was quite something, to be under the light, on stage in front of an audience that channeled energy and response.
Surely, yes, there had been bad experiences as well. Rotten fruit was the audience's reprimand for a less-than-stellar performance. And yes, there were also the occasional jeers from soused-up men in the front, and even a rare confrontation from one of said souses. Life in the arts was surely more relaxed when it came to morality, but Amy found it not nearly as off-putting as she thought she would.
Overall, she liked her new line of work. And, in addition to the happiness it eventually reaped, it offered a source of income. Which wasn't a bad thing, considered how much the peacetime had taken a toll on Bush's pay. In addition, acting provided a way for her to cope with her husband being gone so much. Amy would not be the first to admit it, but she was needy—she hated it when Bush was overseas, and she was forced to stay ashore, waiting and worrying. It was maddening the emotional toll it could take on her, imagining all the possible things that could go wrong, ending in Bush's fatal return.
So, she acted, letting it drain her of her thoughts, worries, and fears, submersing herself completely into another character's world. It was very therapeutic, she found. And besides, she was good at it. It had taken time to be granted an audience with the company's directors, and she could tell that they prejudged her to be yet another lowlife not worthy of their time. This had only motivated her further, and her adaptation of a monologue of Shakespeare's Ophelia had them nearly in tears by the end of it. Needless to say, she was quickly recruited.
She wouldn't be able to act forever, she knew; she would grow old, and probably become the mother who Bush, and she herself, secretly, wanted her to be. And lately, she had been thinking that this would happen sooner than later. Bush was very frank when it came to these matters; he made it clear that he wanted children. And not just one, or two, but many children. "I need little ones to take care of me in my old age," he grumbled, but Amy always deterred him to another conversation. It wasn't that she was so against having children, it was that it meant sacrificing her freedom, and with Bush being gone so much, it would surely be a large sacrifice. She just wasn't ready yet, that was all.
However, it was a sacrifice she knew she would make some day. She could tell from the day they were married, from the look in Bush's eyes, that children were what Bush wanted the most, in addition to her as his wife.
Their wedding had been aboard the Hotspur, on their journey back to England. A flagship had approached them, telling everyone of the joyous news: the war with France was over, peace had been obtained! This had convinced Bush that very moment to seize the day, now that he would most certainly be kept ashore for some time before returning to sea. After grabbing Amy by the arm, and speaking quietly with Horatio, it was arranged that the couple would be wed that very day, under the guidance of the Captain. Within the hour, Horatio preformed the somewhat awkward ceremony, the crew cheered, and Bush took his bride to his cabin, where the two enjoyed what was gossiped amongst the ship to be the most lively of wedding nights.
As Amy sat in her bed, watching out her window at the snowy, cold world outside, she shivered internally. Her hope was that wherever William Bush was, that he was warm and safe, and that he was thinking of her, and missing her as much as she missed him. A hum left her lips, the first few chords of the orchestral theme of the play earlier that night. As quickly as the melody came, it left her. A bang sounded from downstairs, and Thomas Bush made his presence known. Amy sighed, pulling tightly closed the curtains over the window, wishing once again it was her husband, and not her wayward brother-in-law. But he would be home soon enough, she knew. He had written the moment the Hotspur was sailing towards Portsmouth Bay, saying he would be on shore within a fortnight and would be returning to the house as soon as he was able. She couldn't wait. With good weather, his journey home would surely only take a few days before he was back in her arms.
Maybe then she could finally convince him—with her various methods of persuasion—to kick Tom out. And enjoy his company, of course.
Far away in Southampton, soft light shone from a town building's upper room window. The usually busy tavern had called it a night. It was more respectable than some inns around the city—there were no harlots employed here—but there was surely a moderate deal of drunken behavior and merriment that took place during the day. It did not stay open all night, it closed a few hours after sunset. However, those who lived above it were still awake.
Charlotte Wellard sang quietly to herself as she pulled the needle in and out of the fabric. The sun had set hours ago, but she was still working hurriedly to finish darning the socks that had somehow piled up over the last few weeks. Socks were one of her least favorite things to mend, she had found, as they were highly uninteresting, and one of the most hole-prone articles of clothing she had encountered. Nevertheless, it was a task that needed to be accomplished, and one she couldn't get out of.
It had been yet another long day, and for her, it was not over yet. There were still things she had yet to attend to before she went to bed. In the morning, she would rise as usual—with the sun—making her way to tavern downstairs to start her daily tasks of cleaning, cooking, and serving the guests that would trickle in throughout the day. It was work that required diligence; she did not often get days off, save Sundays, or breaks. Even more rarely did she get to sleep in, or spend a day doing something only for her enjoyment.
Despite her trying situation, Lottie remained optimistic about her life. And she was ever so grateful that because of this job, she had a place to stay and enough to eat. Her situation, she often likened to being God-ordained, because everything had worked out so nicely and aptly.
During the peace, she and Wellard had stayed in an inn room in Southampton, not able to do much of anything. Within a year, the shaky peace with France was over, and Wellard had found himself assigned along with Archie to the Armageddon, under the authority of Captain Neville Hawthorne. In the weeks leading up to his departure, the couple had desperately tried to make arrangements for a place for Lottie to live until Wellard returned. Buying a house was out of the question, for the time being, seeing as they had been unable to save much of anything during the peacetime.
It had been a fortunate day for Lottie when she met Bridgette Hempsy. She had been scouring the street market place when in front of her, a woman visibly with child carrying one too many baskets dropped the things she had purchased. Bread tumbled, apples rolled, and a glass jar threatened to shatter as the baskets had fallen to the ground. Strangely, no one sought to help the poor woman, although a boy picked up one of her apples, only to dash off with it down the street.
Feeling it was only right, Lottie had helped, gathering up the apples in her apron, brushing off the bread, and placing gently the glass jar back in the basket. The woman had been profoundly appreciative, and she had introduced herself as Bridgette Hempsy. Lottie had offered to help her carry her belongings the rest of the way home, and the two had chatted pleasantly along the way.
Bridgette was an overly busy housewife. Her husband had been in the military years ago, but after an injury had removed him from his service, he had stayed home to help run his mother's inn—The Wayside Tavern. Over the last year, Mrs. Hempsy senior had gotten ill, and though every remedy had been broached by doctors near and far, her sickness had not gone away. The woman was reaching her last days, and was currently bed-ridden. This of course, only meant more work for Bridgette. And now that she was sure to have her second child within the next month, her life was sure to get even more complicated.
Lottie, in return, told Bridgette her less-than-ideal story—her needy situation, her wish not to rely on someone else's charity, and her hope for a place of her own. Bridgette had sympathized. "I am all too familiar with a penniless husband. Don't you think it strange, how those without money always seem to be the most handsome?" she had replied dryly, and Lottie had smiled politely.
Upon arriving back at her tavern, what Bridgette offered Lottie surprised her.
"I find you most amiable," Bridgette had told her, looking her so firmly in the eye Lottie had to fight the urge to look away. "My first impression of you is that you are honest, and willing to work for your happiness. I think that you can help me, and in return, I can help you."
The woman had been very blunt—the stress that she had been under lately had been too much to handle, and she needed help. In return for Lottie's helping out with the children and around the tavern, she would provide a place for her to rest and food for her to eat.
"Of course, Mr. Wellard, when he comes ashore, may stay with you here," she had added, with a sneaky smile that was not missed by the attentive Lottie.
And so, Lottie had found employment, and a place to stay. There had been some apprehension about it. Wellard had made her promise that if things didn't work out, that she would go and stay with Cat until he returned to England. But things had, most luckily, worked out. Bridgette—who later on Lottie knew as Bridy—had turned out to be a good friend. She and her husband were very generous, and appreciated the help that Lottie gave them. Oftentimes Mr. Hempsy suffered from severe headaches, and Lottie was called on to tend to the tavern while Bridy cared for her husband or children.
There were also countless things Lottie had learned from Bridy. Most importantly, how to care for things she had previously never had to attend to. How to mend, wash, cook, and clean in this time period was significantly different than how she had learned in her own time. Her cooking skills had been greatly furthered under the supervision of Bridy, and soon enough, the kitchen became the one place she felt truly comfortable.
Lottie had been saving tips and other payment she received from strangers or those who had paid her in return for a service. She did this in hopes that one day, it wouldn't always be like this. That one day, both of them could move into a house—a real house—of their own, a place where they could raise children. This she longed for increasingly, although she had learned to be content with the little she had. Wellard felt bad about this, she knew, but she didn't mind working so much. After all, where would she be without him? Alone, surely, living off another's charity, being at their disposal. Here, at least she was useful.
Despite the company of Bridy, Lottie missed Wellard most terribly. The last time she had seen him had been over two months ago, and then it had only been for one blissful day while the Captain had seen to some business in town. Some days, her life seemed so merciless that it seemed that God and Wellard were the only things that made the day obtainable.
They were quite a pair, he and she. During the first year of their marriage, both had discovered the healing and comfort they could find in one another. They had their demons, memories they wished they could forget, words better left unspoken, experiences that had forever changed them. Oftentimes, one of them would wake up from a nightmare of their past, and the other would call to them, bringing them away from the window, and back to bed. Lottie was very proud of Wellard, which he knew, and he was very much glad to have her as both a friend and companion.
There was great news to tell Wellard when he returned; Lottie was with child. Her shyness had prevented her from admitting this in writing to her husband overseas. It was to be a surprise for whenever he made his next visit ashore. She wished desperately that he would be happy, and not dismayed. This gave her a keen happiness, knowing that a life was growing inside of her. A son perhaps, or a daughter? With this happiness, there was trepidation. How would they provide for this child? Would she be a good mother? Wellard was so concerned about the raising of children, Lottie supposed, because of his rather harsh upbringing. So desperately she wanted this unborn child to have a good life, to grow up in a steady, healthy enviornment, and have siblings to love and grow up with.
All these thoughts swarmed in Lottie's head, keeping her awake despite her drooping eyelids. Having darned the particularly attention-needing sock to her satisfaction, Lottie leaned to blow out the candle on her bedside table. As she tucked the blankets in around herself, quiet prayers were offered upwards as she murmured her daily thanks and pious requests. Thanking Him for her many blessings, and her unborn child. Thanking Him for the old, out-of-tune pianoforte in the backroom that allowed an outlet for her emotions. Praying that Wellard was safe, and would be here with her soon.
Out of habit more than anything, she twisted round her finger the thin, plain silver band that symbolized her matrimony to the man she loved. It was a simple ring, but it meant the world to Lottie. On her journey back to England, for lack of a better temporary substitute, Wellard had tied a thin string in a bow on her ring finger. Though Lottie hadn't minded not having the ring straight away, his feet had scarce touched the English shore before he pulled his wife to the nearest jeweler—he did have his pride, Lottie supposed, and the other officers had surely teased him about it. Her face lit up with a small smile at the memory, of him holding her small hand and sliding the band onto her finger, of the smile—the broad, genuine smile that so rarely graced his eyes.
Oh, she did hope he would come ashore soon.
For some reason, this chapter was kind of hard to write. It's going to take some getting used to being in HH mode again! Review now, hmm?