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Dear Diary,
I do solemnly promise upon the sanctity of this crisp new page that the contents herein will belong to a goodly person of upstanding character, with an eye to sensibility even if the tenor of my thoughts does occasionally tend to unspeakable badness. This diary is a gift from dear Edmund, the sole member amongst my relations whom I can truly call welcoming to my person. Since the desolate arrival of myself six years thus, cast out by my family and bereft without a glimpse of friendly feeling, only Edmund has ever been sweet to me. Therefore these pages will be filled with nothing but Edmund’s character—that is to say, kindness, thoughtfulness, strong good sense, and general uprightness of mind.
I am not very clever nor especially well-suited to the likes of Edmund’s family name or the household of Mansfield Park—which includes dreadful Aunt Norris, my uncle Lord Thomas and Edmund’s elder brother Tom, both currently presiding over the family plantation in Antigua, as well as Edmund’s sisters Maria and Julia—but for six years of what I confess to be my own general frailty, I have had Edmund’s affections and good example to live by. As such, all unwelcome demons may flee me now, so as to preserve a bit of general tidiness of soul and manner. (Not to say that I should ever believe any demons to actually exist—Edmund surely doesn’t, and therefore I don’t either.)
Upon this page and the next I will render my intentions as good as his: for utility, honor, and happiness unto myself and all my connections, amen.
Dear Diary,
Have perhaps spoken too soon. Will return to write more later.
Dear Diary,
I’ve never been one for malicious tales of creatures and spirits. A girl of my history can’t afford to see evil everywhere she looks or she’d have to simply close her eyes and risk fumbling into the furniture. After all, if one sees the sinister in every little thing, how is a person supposed to get anything done throughout the day? Far better, as Edmund suggests, to see the good. But then Edmund always sees the good, or in the case of my person, the invisible. His is a character better suited to a world renounced of all malevolent deeds and creatures, or of girls who are a crippling disappointment to their benefactors and who may, at times, express certain moments of doubt when new human (?) visitors arrive.
Isn’t it peculiar how not believing in a certain thing can still fail to prevent you from knowing such a thing when you see it? Being so occupied with goodness as Edmund is—he is, after all, set to be ordained quite soon—I worry that perhaps Edmund is not only above such devilish thoughts, but wholly incapable of recognizing them. Could such a thing be possible? I suppose he may not have been watching when our visitor Henry Crawford’s tongue appeared to fork in a devilish manner above his glass of claret. Equally possible I’m sure is the likelihood I may have imagined it entirely. It does not escape me that a man with Henry Crawford’s birth and breeding, far superior to my own, could not possibly possess some kind of serpent’s tongue. After all he owns Everingham, which is by all accounts a finer house than Mansfield.
I sound firmly mad, which is unfortunate. The point is I know demons are not real, and yet I could swear I’ve just seen one. Perhaps I only need a thorough rest. The weather has been quite dreary of late. I am sure with even one afternoon of sunshine my disposition will undoubtedly improve.
Dear Diary,
How exactly can one be sure whether one has recognized a demon? I have asked Edmund what he thinks and he replies that surely if such a creature existed it would be obvious by the size of its teeth. I feel this is in some way inaccurate. What good would it be to take the shape of such a creature when surely no one could resist noticing an oddity such as overlarge or pointed teeth? But then, Edmund knows by heart the Biblical passages describing angels, and they are nothing so well-camouflaged according to the scriptures. Still, were I a carrier of, say, the devil’s ill will, would I not choose to go by such a name as, perhaps, Henry, or Mary, so as not to arouse suspicion…?
Edmund laughs at my query, finding it amusing. He thinks me cleverer than I am, I suspect, believing me to have made up such a thing for his entertainment. He tells me how fond he is of me, which I admit is a thing I do not hear from any others. I can’t say I regret it, though the possibility does remain of demons in our midst. Again I mention my concerns to Edmund, who again laughs and is charmed.
Hm. This is proving quite challenging indeed.
Dear Diary,
I suppose it’s worth mentioning how I came by my suspicions. Ordinarily I try not to see nefariousness in anyone, not even in my aunt Norris who is spitefully unpleasant or in Mr Rushmore who vies for Maria’s hand and is wealthy and an idiot nor in spendthrift Tom Bertram, the Bertram family’s elder son, who might do well to take a leaf from his younger brother’s book of inconvenient goodness. There is something very distinct about the fashionable Crawfords, though, which exceeds the normal capacity for moral wickedness; possibly it is the slitted pupils or the occasional glimpse of claws beneath the siblings’ gloves.
Perhaps if the Crawfords were more like Mr Rushmore, who is again mostly an idiot, I would suspect them of nothing particularly untoward. Unfortunately they do seem clever and lively despite the fact that I have heard them chattering to each other in, if not devil’s tongues, then certainly something odious. Though perhaps I misheard. Regardless I can’t think what’s gotten into Edmund.
Dear Diary,
It has occurred to me that perhaps Edmund is confusing Mary Crawford’s tender beauty for actual goodness, but that can’t be right. Surely such a mistake would be too elementary for someone of Edmund’s faultless cleverness? Oh, must go. Henry is looking oddly at me and his eyes appear red. Perhaps I should begin making a list of these occurrences?
Dear Diary,
When I walked past Henry just now he had unsevered his jaw nearly in half, like a snake about to swallow a bird whole. Probably just a trick of the light. Though he also persuaded Maria to jump over the gate at Sotherton on the occasion of our visit to Mr Rushmore, which I suppose is not in itself so wicked. Or would not be, if not for the maniacal look in Henry’s eye when Maria succumbed quite eagerly to his will. Though, perhaps those of my sex are merely given to flightier imaginations? I shall ask Edmund, he would know.
Dear Diary,
Today was a very odd day. Spendthrift Tom has returned from Antigua, for one thing, and is insisting on the oddest choice of entertainment. I always enjoy a bit of light playacting—anything to be someone other than plain old Fanny Price for a bit—but indeed, this particular refashioning of Lovers’ Vows is quite a queer choice, especially considering the second act appears to have been swapped out for a ritualized séance with Lucifer. I pointed out to Edmund that perhaps it was improper to be performing such a piece, and for a moment he did appear to take my warning quite seriously, at first discouraging those in our company from the performance, lest a play of such an amorous nature be considered untoward. Unfortunately he mistook my supernatural concerns for more feminine (human) preciousness about the impropriety of sentiment. Inconveniently, a mesmerizing smile from Mary Crawford seems to have convinced him, and indeed I am concerned that he does not seem quite himself.
I should mention that in fact I quite like Mary Crawford, though she does continue to take issue with Edmund’s future among the clergy. I informed her that it was quite a comfortable position at the parsonage and she disagreed, though before I could ask whether it was a matter of his income or his alliance with the Holy Church she had already disappeared in a thick cloud of ash. Again, I found myself very unsettled. However she made it up to me by being very charming company at dinner. She told me I am deceptively quite dull and I assured her that among my benefactors I am considered emphatically dull, not deceptively so. She found this so amusing her head spun round thrice.
The true extent of Henry Crawford’s nature continues to elude me. It is my belief that Mary intends only to consume and subsequently make use of Edmund’s body and soul for her own nefarious purposes, and while I do find that rather discouraging, I can’t think of interfering when Edmund appears so very content. To air any criticism of this ardency of feeling when he is so obviously pleased with her esteem would be to betray my own affections for him, which are considerable. But Henry is indeed a mystery. He seems at alternate moments to be wooing both Maria and Julia, and also their chaperones and most especially Spendthrift Tom (who looks particularly touched by fever after his private conversation with Henry that results in the sudden, rabid urge to perform the reconstructed Lovers’ Vows). Mostly, though, I suspect Henry is fixed on Maria, who seems most susceptible to his charms.
I hope to be enlightened soon as to the aims of Henry Crawford; I have not always adored Maria, who is rather vain, but neither do I wish her to meet a ghastly end. We have certainly had our differences but still, I would hate for any of the Bertrams to be subjected to the fiery pits of hell. Again I think it worth mentioning over tea that afternoon, but eternal damnation feels a bit strong for polite company. I will have to reconsider my aims, though supper does not seem any less decorous an occasion. Perhaps a casual breakfast some other time, or if anyone happens to ask me to accompany them on a leisurely stroll.
Dear Diary,
Mary Crawford is not entirely a ruthless incarnation of evil, or at least if she is, she isn’t also a snob. Is it possible demons are not entirely poor party guests? I expected at any moment to see a blaze or mass condemnation to the will of the Prince of Darkness but she only lent me a very nice comb from among her personal possessions. I will confess that watching her dance with Edmund does vex me a bit. Only because I would so hate for him to be in any way disemboweled. He is such a lovely creature, as I remind Mary, and she agrees, though seems herself quite vexed for other reasons.
“Clergy!” she exclaims again when we revisit the discussion of Edmund’s intended path. “How positively wretched.”
I agree it’s very solemn as far as callings, but it has always been Edmund’s greatest wish. Mary seems dreadfully bored by the thought, and perhaps even sickened. When I ask if she is unwell she tells me she has never succumbed to mortal weakness before and probably never shall, though she’s still very set on Edmund.
"It’s only that his limbs look so very tender,” she laments to herself.
I regret to confess, diary, that I agree.
Dear Diary,
Henry’s sudden departure has been a terrible burden to Maria, who can no longer eat or sleep in his absence. She seems to be wasting away, poor thing, almost as if vials of her blood have been leached from her. Or perhaps less seriously, some substance belonging only to her immortal soul. With Henry gone and her father returned from Antigua, Maria has been persuaded at last to take the wealthy imbecile Mr Rushmore as a spouse, which will no doubt improve her complexion. (Assuming her Rushmore becomes more lively in the hearth than upon her father’s doorstep, that is. Either way his money will probably not hurt.)
As for Sir Thomas, he seems newly impressed with me upon his return. Whether that’s the effect of the demon Mary Crawford suspending him upside down from the rafters (I only looked in for a moment and can’t be entirely certain what I saw) or purely my improvements as a woman are yet to be confirmed. In any event, he has offered to throw me a sort of coming-out ball. I can only hope there will be no ritual slaughters, though I will dress carefully just in case.
Dear Diary,
Much as I do care for the demon Mary Crawford, I still feel great concern over her hold on Edmund. It seems to be ailing him greatly. Not that he is not as handsome as ever, but there was a moment while we were dancing this evening when our hands brushed, and I thought perhaps he looked glad of the contact. It was my first indication that he was not completely, blissfully serene with Mary, who later shrieked in an ungodly pitch that she would never dance with a clergyman. I assume it would be very unhealthful for her and so I understand her misgivings, but Edmund looked terribly woeful to hear it. He lingered by my side, and so I think perhaps he is not as content with Mary as I imagined. I have been trying so very hard, diary, not to think unpleasant things where it comes to his apparent enchantment, but my concerns grow every day that he is being influenced by forces of evil. I have not yet determined a course of action, which continues to irk me day and night.
Worse yet is that Henry Crawford is back, and he’s turned his slippery gaze on me. By that I mean his gaze is literally quite slippery and for a moment I find myself entirely liquid, though he gets distracted and turns away. I find perhaps I should not make eye contact again, which should be easy enough. I am demure now, after all, and accomplished enough to be pleasing to Sir Thomas, who toasts me across the table. If there has been any bloodletting since I last saw him it doesn’t show; thank goodness. Think how awkward if there were.
Dear Diary,
Edmund is gone, diary, absconded from Mansfield Park in an attempt to restore the tender heart which demon Mary Crawford has broken, and I must confess I am desolate.
Henry seeks to console me by offering me the blood of my enemies, but as I tell him, I haven’t any. It was Edmund who taught me to love and show kindness to all creatures, even those cursed to hell. Henry assures me he can be more than ample entertainment in Edmund’s absence and offers a queer sort of game between us, something to do with scissors. I tell him my embroidery is much improved without his help and he slithers a laugh. I lack the appetite for tea and excuse myself. I can only pray it is nothing but a touch of cold.
Dear Diary,
Henry seems increasingly intent on my attention. I can’t imagine why, though perhaps it has something to do with my persisting suspicion that he’s some kind of satanic hellion. For whatever reason, nobody else seems to notice a thing—even though Maria, who is often appearing in places where the demon Henry Crawford has just been, is noticeably odd again. She keeps mumbling her devotion to Beelzebub but everyone is much too polite to ask her to elucidate. Henry, who is usually nearby, merely smiles.
I confess I miss Edmund’s smile. No flames heightened in the hearth when he did so but I found it soothing. The ordinariness of Edmund’s goodness seems a thing of the distant past. Mary offers to commune with spirits on my behalf but I can’t bring myself to show enthusiasm. She calls me a poor thing and offers me some sort of contracted bargain with someone she knows in the south. I ask if she means the devil and she says no, Cornwall. But him too, if I’m seriously asking. I tell her I’m not, because the holy collar of the clergy was always Edmund’s destiny and anyway, he was only kind to me, not mine. “Poor thing,” she says again. “That’s true.”
Dear Diary,
I caught Henry Crawford laying Maria on a slab of stone outside the house today with a small iron dagger in his hand. I asked him to please not do anything too hastily, which annoyed him. I suppose as punishment he’s now requesting my hand. (Not the actual appendage, thank goodness. Just symbolically, in marriage.)
I have just come from informing Sir Thomas that I cannot accept the marriage proposal of a demon. He demands to know how I got it in my head that any man of Henry Crawford’s standing could be refused by the likes of me, however infernal the man’s hobbies are. I want to bring up Maria’s potential exsanguination as an example of my concern, but I am too fond of her for Edmund’s sake to soil her reputation along with mine. Instead I simply decline.
Now it seems I am being sent away to live in poverty, which is in Sir Thomas’s mind the true demon of the world and generally to be avoided. I am not the expert in demons that I imagine Edmund would be under more favorable circumstances, having only glimpsed a small sample myself and being emphatically dull and of only average cleverness. Still, I think Sir Thomas might be right.
Dear Diary,
The demon Henry Crawford comes to visit the chaotic household of my family the Prices, to whose care I have been unceremoniously banished. Henry seems appreciative of the ruckus, which is, I confess, somewhat endearing. Not many a man could look upon the misfortunes of such a birth and still wish to wed, if even for demonic purposes. Still, I continue to decline his offer. Edmund, when less mawkishly besotted, has always impressed upon me the importance of having convictions, and in this case not vowing myself to a demon seems to be one.
It is at this point of ongoing frustration with my persisting recalcitrance that Henry Crawford has revealed his teeth. They are in fact very pointy, and thus Edmund was correct: demons can be recognized via dentition.
But the thought of Edmund only wounds me, so I turn and go inside.
Dear Diary,
Terrible news. It seems that my attempt to shield Maria’s reputation has nonetheless resulted in scandal when she was discovered to be consorting with the demon Henry Crawford. They are using the word “affair” and say her husband, the idiot Mr Rushmore, is so distraught he will be petitioning for divorce at once. This will leave Maria’s good name in ruins alongside whatever holy relics Henry has burnt, which I cannot bear to consider. I can scarcely imagine the trial this will be for her family’s reputation; if only I had thought sooner to unravel the evils within Mansfield Park. As it is I can only hope that as eldest son, Tom Bertram will be able to face them.
Dearest Diary, you cannot imagine my surprise! It is Edmund. Well, he is here to fetch me on behalf of Tom, who is doing very poorly, so that is unfortunate news and also quite foreboding of me—but primarily it is Edmund!!! He pleads with me to return with him to Mansfield, where his spendthrift brother Tom is suffering from (im)mortal injury. I have no idea what help I can be in this case but I have never before refused Edmund, and I never will. I will return with him at once and write later.
(Though, let me say for now, diary, that heartache over demon Mary Crawford has made Edmund profoundly handsome, and were I capable of such a great and terrible wickedness as the Crawfords seem to be, I would want him for himself. There, now it is in your pages, but secret. I will never disappoint him by confessing such a sin aloud. In fact I do believe I shall burn this, however not with my satanic breath as the demon Crawfords would do. Instead I will simply discard it in the hearth, at an acceptable hour, as befitting my education amongst the Bertrams.)
There is a brief moment in the carriage with Edmund, diary. His finger brushes the bone of my wrist and in his countenance there is something quiet and peaceful. He and I share a breath of mutual solitude and it is eternal, yet perilously quick. Oh, I think helplessly. Oh, Edmund.
He lifts his knuckle to my cheek and smiles at me. He has missed me, he says.
I resolve that I will make certain he is happy, even if it is the demon Mary Crawford he intends to choose. I feel certain that securing the matrimonial joy of my only true friend is the goodly thing to do, and it is Edmund himself who has taught me goodness. So I am at least indebted to him for that.
A spot of trouble, diary. It becomes immediately apparent to me that Tom’s feverish illness is most unnatural indeed. Difficult to say whether this is due to the ghostly pallor of his cheeks, the sudden appearance of sinister-looking runes across his chest, or the book beside him featuring the scrawl of his signature on a page most undoubtedly foul. But taken collectively it is very likely not the pox.
I mention to Edmund the possibility of demons and he looks worried but mostly bemused. Sadly, I do not think this is a case where Edmund can be helpful. Instead I turn to Mary Crawford, also a demon, who asks me why on earth I would ever concern myself with such a useless plaything as spendthrift Tom Bertram. I point out that if Spendthrift Tom were to die or otherwise be convinced to sacrifice his soul, as he appears to have possibly been at this moment, then Edmund would have to inherit Mansfield Park and could not, as he so hoped, join the ranks of clergy.
“Oh!” gasps Mary. “How very tragic indeed!”
It occurs to me her reaction is disingenuous, as she is breathing smoke out of her pipe like a dragon and also smiling uncannily at my suspicions. She is, as I have said, a very entertaining companion, but in this case I find her reaction disappointing. She tells me that may be so, but it wasn’t her who made Tom sign the devil’s book, it was Henry.
This, diary, is most disheartening. I have not relished my dealings with Henry up to this point, but it appears nonetheless that I will have to seek him out.
Dear Diary,
A strange day. I tend to Tom as best I can while waiting for news of Henry’s whereabouts. Edmund is devastated by the state of his elder brother’s health, and so this evening I join him for a moment of solace. He leans his cheek gently against my forehead, my own countenance resting on his shoulder. He is a comfort to me, as I hope I am to him.
I tell Edmund the demon Mary Crawford will likely make a good match should he inherit Mansfield. He is loath to hear it, given the circumstances upon which he would inherit the family estate, but agrees it would be sensible. He swallows then, and the light from the fire glances upon the shape of his throat. He says my name so delicately, and then I feel it.
Mary once told me that despite my “unimpressive” attempts at goodness, there is a carnivorous part of me I will not always be able to hide. She is adamant that inside me there is some unimpeachable hunger, an incurable thirst, and someday I will delight in the flames of it. In the moment when I feel such pangs for Edmund—Edmund, so gentle and compassionate; so blind and stupid, and so wonderfully at risk for demon possession—I know she is right. It frightens me and delights me, this quiet rage I have inside me. Fury, really, that I should be forced to exist in a world where he is not mine.
Edmund leans closer and I think with sudden clarity: ah, this is it, isn’t it? Henry must be here somewhere, he is toying with me, and when I look up I find I am correct. The demon Henry Crawford stands beside the fireplace smiling, and I understand that he must have done this. Corrupted Maria. Offered riches to Tom. For me, it is my ravenous heart. Henry Crawford’s evil is a pervasively subtle thing, and I quietly tell Edmund he ought to leave. (I can’t think how stupid he’ll feel about all this when he’s no longer under Henry’s presumptive control and is again without weakness or flaw. Poor thing.)
Once Edmund is gone, Tom shoots up in bed, reaching for me although he is already half a corpse. I see now that Henry intends to be done with me, as I am of little use to his plans. He says he’s got enough from Maria to sustain himself for some time until he can move on to somewhere more interesting, perhaps Antigua. There are demons enough in Antigua, I assure him; I know what sort of place the Bertrams run (and more accurately, who runs it for their profit). Henry replies that he knows, but the climate is really much better. Demon-addled Spendthrift Tom holds his hands around my throat and I think perhaps this is my destiny, a death as unremarkable as my life, only then I remember Edmund. What will become of him if I am gone? With Mary it’s one thing, but with Henry he’ll be terribly outnumbered. Someone will have to make sure the demons don’t overindulge.
I manage to spy the poker beside the fire and reach for it, holding Edmund in my mind. I take strength from his kindness. It is my sincerest hope, as it has always been Edmund’s, that none that I love shall ever be harmed if I can help it. I stab the poker into the eye of the demon Henry Crawford, then throw his infernal book into the rapidly rising flames. Tom screams, the demon Henry screams, and amid the wailing and gnashing of teeth I try to recall some of Edmund’s favorite psalms. I recite them, even singing his favorite hymns, while Henry transforms into an enormous red creature with fangs. He grows larger and larger until finally the book burns, and the thing that was once Henry Crawford disintegrates in an explosion of gelatinous goop.
For future reference, diary: it is apparently very easy to kill a demon, though it is slightly less easy not to accidentally char a room to ash.
Dear Diary,
Tom and I receive some burns, and I suspect Mansfield Park’s east wing will require some extensive repairs before the season. Not ideal. Worse yet is that I will probably have to do something about the demon Mary Crawford, of whom I have become quite fond.
I am rehearsing in my head what I will say to her when I discover that she is already in the parlor speaking to Edmund in angry tones. He is apparently furious that her only regret is that her brother-demon Henry Crawford was discovered. She demands to know what else she should feel badly about and Edmund points out that trickery, adultery, and ritual human sacrifice are all very high on the list. She shrieks that he can’t simply do this, doesn’t he know who she is and with which incorporeal entities of evil she has contracted the terms of this body? He says he doesn’t know anything about incorporeal entities of evil but he does know a bad egg when he sees one, so. There.
Mary storms off in a huff and then Edmund and I are left alone. I cautiously tell him that his spendthrift brother Tom is alive although he probably should see someone about his spending; it is beginning to border on gluttony. Lustful Maria, too, will be fine in Henry’s absence, assuming she is able to resume normal behaviors of eating and sleeping. I think it has mostly to do with the book, which is gone now. Everything, I conclude, is probably fine.
Edmund looks at me in disbelief, as if I have done something miraculous. I assure him that he would have gladly done the same for me had he been the one to notice I was overrun with demons. Then, concerned I may unintentionally sound ungrateful, I add that I don’t blame him for not noticing. He always sees the good in people, which is virtuous and admirable. But it can sometimes be a very impractical way to live.
For a moment I think Edmund hasn’t the slightest idea what to say to me. Then he asks if I’d like some tea, which of course I would. Very thoughtful of him, though I would expect no different. He smiles at me lopsidedly and says I’ve always been too good for him. Too good for him? No, I assure him: I am only good because of him.
He smiles again, which is when I worry there are still some demonic aftereffects in place between us. My chest roars with satiation and my body tightens with want. I suspect it will be best to give the whole situation some time to settle before revisiting the possibility that great evil remains in this house.
Dear Diary,
Well, Mary is gone now. She’s written me a letter saying she could easily reduce Edmund’s will to dust and make of him whatever she chooses, but since I’m a friend and likely to be his choice (?? of what ??) she’s done me the personal favor of moving on to tenderer pastures. Besides, she adds, since I so foolishly saved Tom’s life, there’s no fun in the pursuit anymore. No houses to inherit, though of course she’s forgotten that Edmund has the parsonage. I suppose that wouldn’t entirely please her regardless. I think it’s actually quite pleasant of her to take into consideration my feelings on the matter of Edmund’s soul, though I can’t imagine why she thinks I have any right to the matter of his future. Still, I appreciate her sympathies nonetheless.
Tom is better now, nearly recovered, and Sir Thomas seems to look upon me as a daughter, having realized the demon Henry Crawford was not very gentlemanly a prospect after all. Everything seems well, and—
One moment. It seems Edmund would like to speak to me about something. Hopefully not another demon; I know this is a fairly lesser house compared to the Crawfords’ estate at Everington, but I hate to think they’re multiplying in the walls.
It’s the strangest thing, diary, but it seems Edmund did have me in mind, just as Mary suggested in her letter. Not for any demon-related purposes, as it happens, but as a wife. (!) Edmund explains that he did not previously understand the nature of my feelings towards him, nor the strength of my devotion, though he assures me that has little bearing on his great and longstanding affection for me. He has always seen me as good and clever and the dearest of friends, more beloved than any other person in his life, but has never known until now that I would willingly set myself against a demon from Hell Itself for the purposes of preserving his Eternal Soul, which has caused him to see things between us more clearly. I said that actually, I wouldn’t have interfered at all if such a demonic possession were what he truly desired—his happiest end, so to speak—and he said well then, even better. He would have done the same for me.
Apparently this whole series of events has raised me in Edmund’s estimation somehow, or awoken him to something critical indeed, though before I can think about it very long he has already pulled me into his arms. Such a thing seems perfectly good, as there are certainly none better than Edmund and for whatever reason he believes the same of me. I am no authority in this, but as far as I can tell some degree of closeness is paramount, and when Edmund’s lips begin to part I do find that I am rather thrillingly elated. Indeed, I also find I like the heat of his mouth on mine and feel compelled to see where else it can be put to use.
I suffer again the flames of my own devils, hungry and wanting, but Edmund tells me he feels it too, so perhaps Mary did leave something of herself and Henry behind after all.
In this case, I find I am not at all obliged to kill it.