Affliction (Do or Die Book 2) Ivy Bennet

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Affliction

Ivy Bennet
Copyright © 2024 by Ivy Bennet

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written
permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, events, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual
events is purely coincidental.
Cover Design: Ivy Bennet
Editing: Indie Proofreading
Formatting: Indie Proofreading

A ut hor ’s N ot e:

Affliction is a standalone FFM romance. It contains content and situations that could be triggering for some readers.

This book is explicit and contains explicit sexual content.

It is intended to be for readers 18+.
For a full list of triggers, please visit the author’s website: ivybennet.com
CONTENTS

Smut-ents
Playlist
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Epilogue
Bonus Epilogue
About the Author
SMUT-ENTS

Want to get right to the good part? Or skip it for whatever

reason? I gotchu.

Chapter 6
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 16
Chapter 18
Chapter 20
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Bonus Epilogue
PLAYLIST

1. Take Me to Church - Hozier

2. SELF-SABOTAGE - Waterparks
3. Bulls in the Bronx - Pierce The Veil
4. Dive In - Pierce The Veil
5. Forever and Always - Bullet For My Valentine
6. I Wanna - The All-American Rejects
7. Whore - In This Moment
8. She Likes a Boy - Nxdia
9. Kool-Aid - Bring Me The Horizon
10. The Summoning - Sleep Token
11. Heaven Shall Burn - Imminence
12. The Surface - Beartooth
CHAPTER 1

Viv

L ike every Friday night, Samsara is at capacity, a line of people on the waitlist for a table. My brother Max and I are tending
the bar, as the other bartender, Bridgette, requested the weekend off. We make a good team; him making cocktails while I
pour beer and wine.
Samsara, the restaurant and bar we opened together almost three years ago in the heart of Downtown San Diego, is busy
almost every night now. With exposed brick walls, more tables outside than in, and a long, worn wooden bar with every liquor
you could think of, it’s the newest trendy place to be.
Usually, at this time, I would be buried in spreadsheets in my tiny office, so when Max told me he needed my help behind the
bar tonight, I jumped at the chance. Sitting in my windowless box just doesn’t bring me joy some days. And with the recent
departure of our head chef, who was recruited by a distinguished restaurant in New York City, I’ve been extra busy with all of
his duties outside of cooking.
“You know, you probably shouldn’t wear six-inch platforms when you bartend, Viv,” Max chimes in with his astute
observation. “Aren’t you dying?”
“You know, you probably should keep your comments about my wardrobe to yourself,” I snark back, roaming my eyes over
his dark, ripped skinny jeans, tight gray t-shirt that shows every ridge of his muscles beneath, and the bright white Nikes on his
feet. My clothes are black, as usual. My leather platform boots are knee high with buckles up the sides, and black fishnet tights
run up my legs to the black torn t-shirt dress I wear under my favorite leather jacket.
“At least I don’t look like I’ll be sucking someone’s blood tonight,” he quips right back, knowing full well that I hate when
he compares my style to a vampire. Is there a cape trailing behind me that I don’t know about?
A brief lull in drink orders gives us a minute to talk as we polish glasses and wipe down the bar, so I take the opportunity to
remind him about events coming up over the next few months. “Remember that we have chef interviews on Monday. I lined up
four, so hopefully we find someone because I’m so tired of getting up early just for vegetables.” I roll my eyes, referencing my
early morning trips to the Farmer’s Market every weekend, making him chuckle.
“Can’t Albert deliver? He has for the last couple of weeks.”
“For a huge fee. And his wife went into labor this morning, so he texted me that I’d have to pick up the order tomorrow from
Damien,” I tell him. “Oh, and did you remember to put Abby and Kolson’s wedding in your calendar? Jasper will never
forgive you if you make him miss that party,” I joke. All his boyfriend has been able to talk about for the past month is how
much fun the wedding is going to be, but at least once a week, Max asks me when it is. If it doesn’t have to do with the bar, the
gym, or Jasper, Max will forget it.
“Yes. And he’s had it in his calendar since the invitation came, so no chance we’re missing it. He’ll drag me out of bed if he
has to.” He shakes his head, but he’s so in love with his huge biker, it’s sick. “And, speaking of, you’re still helping me move in
a couple weeks, right?”
“I’ll be there. Abby said Kolson can come, too, so we should have plenty of help,” I tell him. “Is Jasper still working a lot?”
“Ugh, yes. He’s being sent out-of-town like three days a week. I feel like I hardly get to see him. And when he is home, he’s
out doing the MC’s bidding, so I’m always worrying,” Max says with a sigh.
“Are you happy?” I ask.
“Of course, I am. You know I love him more than anything.”
I grab my chest over my heart, feigning hurt. “More than me?”
When he only scoffs, I drop my hand and look at him seriously before continuing, “Live in the happy times of your
relationship, Max. You can’t do anything about his job, and you two are meant to be. And when it’s meant to be, it will be.”
My sage advice is met with an eye roll. “So, when will you be settling down?” he asks with a sarcastic grin.
 I scoff. “Never.”
He just keeps the grin plastered on his face as he repeats my words back to me. “When it’s meant to be, it will be.”

We work side-by-side for a couple hours, and when the kitchen closes, our sous chef, Matt, comes up to help Max so I can go
home.
I say my goodbyes and grab my purse from my office, locking the door before heading out the back door to my car. I’ll have
to get up extra early tomorrow to pick up our produce order before the kitchen crew starts prepping for brunch.
As I drive to the small one-bedroom bungalow I rent a few blocks from the beach, I can’t help but dwell on Max’s question.
So, when will you be settling down?
I told him never, and the truth is, I don’t think I ever will. My life is my own; I’m free to do as I please outside of obligations
at the restaurant, and as a practitioner of witchcraft who ‘wears too much black’, as a man once told me as he was pulling on
his pants, it’s proven difficult to find anyone who makes me comfortable enough to just… be. It isn’t hard to find bed partners,
as every person on the planet seems to have a goth fantasy. I may not consider myself gothic, but I’ll play into it if it gets me
what I need.
I’ve helped many people feel secure in their relationships, or lack thereof, through my powers. My best friend, Abby, was
unsure about Kolson in the beginning, but from the first time I hugged him—yeah, I’m a hugger—I knew that they were meant to
be.
She didn’t believe me, but look where she is now. Getting ready to walk down the aisle toward her true life partner. And,
although Max scoffs at my abilities, I know he took my words to heart when I told him that Jasper was the one for him.
I’m just not convinced that I’ll ever find that for myself.
The scent of sage, rosemary, and bay leaves greets me as I open the door to my home. Walking through the living room into
my bedroom straight ahead, I drop my purse on my dresser and hang my jacket in the small closet behind the bedroom door.
Stepping into the bathroom to the right, I run hot water for a bath, needing a bit of self-care after being on my feet all evening. I
drop in a small muslin sachet of herbal bath salts, the scent of rosemary and lavender wafting into the room instantly.
While the small tub fills, I move through the other bathroom door into the galley kitchen to pour myself a well-deserved glass
of red wine, then gather my tarot cards from the dining table at the other end. Completing the square that is the floor plan of my
bungalow, I move back through the living room to get undressed in the bedroom and wrap my long, blonde dreadlocks into a
scarf for my soak.
Within minutes, I’m sinking into the water, setting my wineglass and cards on the wooden bath tray perched across the tub.
Leaning back, I relax against the tile wall and close my eyes, soaking in the protection and peace from the herbs as my mind
continues to whirl with thoughts of love and what my future might hold.
Cracking an eye open, I reach for my wine, taking a sip as my gaze lands on the deck set in front of me. A single card tonight,
I think. My brain isn’t awake enough for a full spread, but they’re calling to me, nonetheless. They have something to tell me.
I sit up, setting my glass back on the caddy and shuffle the cards, focusing my mind on the long day ahead of me. The few
hours of sleep I’ll get won’t be enough, but running a restaurant was never going to be an undemanding job. Having a place to
call my own has been worth every busy day and sleepless night.
Setting the cards down once more, I cut the deck, then flip the top card—Two of Cups. With thoughts of love on my mind, my
first thought is of a new, perfect partner coming into my life, but instantly dismiss that as what the card is trying to tell me with
a laugh.
Maybe a new business partnership. With the chef interviews in a few days, I can only hope that’s the true intention. Maybe a
new business partnership that will include love.
Laughing at myself again, I pull the plug and down the rest of my wine.
Guess I’ll have to keep an eye out for this new amazing union that is coming my way.
CHAPTER 2

Grace

W allet, keys, phone…

I run through my mental checklist before rushing out of the house, grabbing a reusable grocery bag on the way out of the
house, closing and locking the door as quietly as possible so I don’t wake up Kane. Turning to walk toward the car, I’m jerked
back, my yellow sundress caught in the door. I yank on it, the flowy cotton pulling free, allowing me the freedom to move to my
blue two-door sedan.
I crank the engine, hoping the harsh sound doesn’t wake my husband, and pull out of the driveway. Our house is just outside
of Downtown, allowing us access to amazing restaurants and shopping, while giving us the comfort of a safe neighborhood.
The light-green two-story disappears from my rearview mirror as I drive toward Downtown, heading to the Farmer’s Market
to grab some fresh produce to surprise Kane with his favorite breakfast—omelets chock full of veggies and bacon.
He’s been in a foul mood ever since he lost his dream job, the high-end restaurant where he was the sous chef going under
after only two years. He had worked so hard, helping to build the restaurant up under the tutelage of the owner, a renowned
chef from France. But it turned out that he wasn’t so great with his finances. For over two weeks, he’s been moping around the
house, sleeping in and eating cereal twice a day.
Hopefully, the surprise breakfast will bolster his spirits in preparation for his interview on Monday. The cute boutique
restaurant is an up-and-coming star in San Diego, receiving accolade after accolade from local magazines and critics. It’s also
right down the street from the law firm I work at as a receptionist, so we’ll be able to see each other more often during the day,
our schedules being opposite of one another.
His interview should end right as I go on my lunch break, and surprising him with lunch will be the perfect reprieve from the
stuck up bitches I deal with day in and day out. When I started there after graduating from the private Christian college I
attended, I had hoped to make some new friends, maybe meet some people outside of the church circle, but every single person
I work with has a chip on their shoulder, thinking they’re better than everyone else.
Kane and I made the difficult decision to stop going to church with my parents years ago, much to their chagrin. My mother,
especially, as she had homeschooled me and made sure I was sheltered throughout my adolescence. Until I met Kane at the
bowling alley, during a youth group outing, of course, I didn’t even know life could be any different. He opened my eyes to
more worldly ideas, giving me the confidence to become the person I am today.
Rounding the corner toward the closed-off street where the Farmer’s Market is set up, I pull into a spot along the curb only a
block away. A lucky find on a busy Saturday morning. I hop out of the car, excited to roam the market and see what’s on offer
this morning from the local vendors.
The scent of coffee fills the air as I stroll past a tent selling fresh brew and pastries. I almost stop, but I’ve already had a cup
this morning, and that’s more than enough. The next vendor has a beautiful display filled with crystals, jewelry, and other
shining knick knacks. I stop, a gorgeous, delicate gold necklace with a small orange stone hanging from the chain, pulling me in.
Grazing my fingertips over the stone, I smile, knowing it was meant for me.
The shop owner smiles as she moves toward me, asking if I’d like to try it on. I agree with a nod and snap it into place. She
hands me a mirror to admire the necklace around my neck.
“That is a sunstone,” she tells me. “It holds the energy of the sun. Sunstones are special because they help to alleviate doubts
and bring prosperity and radiant energy into the life of the wearer—maybe even a new love.” Her smile is sly as she looks at
me.
I laugh. “I’m married, so no new loves for me.”
She just shrugs as she tells me the price and I happily hand her some cash for my new necklace.
Moving along, I keep a careful eye out for the best produce. Being married to a chef has made me especially choosy about
the food I buy. Stopping at a few different stands, I find a fault with almost every vegetable I see.
My thoughts wander back to the charm around my neck as I walk, the words of the jewelry vendor running through my head. I
met Kane at eighteen, and until then, I had only been attracted to other girls. But, being raised by religious parents, I had been
taught that it was a sin to be a lesbian. Women and men were meant to be together, to make children, to continue the work of
God.
I never told anyone about my impure thoughts. I knew my mother would never approve, and she might even send me off to
“get better”. But about six months before Kane proposed, I turned twenty-one and got drunk for the first time. That night, I told
him everything, all of my deepest, darkest secrets, and he just shrugged, telling me it wasn’t a big deal and that my feelings
were valid. He had known a lot of people who were bi-sexual, and if it was something I wanted to explore in the future, he
would be open to giving me the space to do that. As long as we always communicated and were always truthful.
Now, four years later, I haven’t been attracted to anyone except Kane in that way, and maybe I never would be again, and
that’s okay, too. I know in my soul that he is my perfect match, and I love him with my entire heart. But that doesn’t mean that I
don’t sometimes think about how different life would be if I had been allowed to explore my sexuality before I met him. Taken
the time to discover my true feelings about women.
Finally, I find the perfect produce vendor. The vegetables are perfect, exactly what I’m looking for. I select a variety of
veggies for the omelets and grab some beautiful ripe strawberries, as well, deciding to make waffles, too, because why not?
Taking my spoils to the makeshift register area, the man behind the table takes a step toward me, but a small, black SUV pulls
up behind the stand at that moment and he holds up a finger with a smile, asking me to wait a moment. I nod, since I’m not in a
hurry.
He walks over to the SUV as a woman steps out. Her long blonde dreads catch my eye first. They are gorgeous, but don’t
hold a candle to her gorgeous gray eyes that meet mine for a moment before she turns to speak to the produce vendor. As they
talk like old friends, I take in her clothes. My bright yellow dress is the exact opposite of her all black attire. The platform
boots on her feet make her eye-to-eye with the man she’s speaking to, who is easily six feet, while she is likely closer to five-
foot-six without them, the rest of her clad in black. A low-cut black dress showing off her intricate tattoos over simple
leggings.
I can’t take my eyes off her. Her smile lights up her features as she laughs with the merchant, his hand sweeping over the
stack of boxes near the back of the stall. A couple of minutes later, she begins loading the boxes into the back of her vehicle,
and I shake myself, attempting to give my attention to the shopkeeper, who comes over to ring up my purchase.
When the woman shuts her trunk, my eyes snap to her again, lured back by a feeling—no, more like a pull. I’m captivated,
drawn to her like a moth to a flame. And as her gaze meets mine, the vendor telling me the amount I owe, I can’t look away.
Those gray eyes hold mine, and her face shifts into a look of confusion. I can feel the electricity sparking in my veins, and I
can’t help but wonder if she feels something, too.
She turns, severing our connection, and climbs into her car. I force myself to focus on pulling out my wallet and scanning my
card, but as soon as I take a step away, my full bag weighing down my arm, all I can think about is her.
CHAPTER 3

Viv

A fter picking up the produce from Damien, I head toward Samsara. I would have liked to walk around for a bit, maybe
picked up some new crystals and smudge sticks from my favorite metaphysical vendor, but the day will be busy with
brunch this morning and being open later for the bar crowd. I can’t afford to waste any time on a Saturday.
Damien, Albert’s right-hand man, always flirts with me when I have to stop by to grab our stock for the day, making me
laugh, but he knows I’m not interested in him. He’s nice enough, but just not my type. Not that I even know what my type is.
I never would have taken a second look at the sweet-looking redhead at his stand on any other day. Usually, I’m so consumed
with my task with anything restaurant related that I don’t even register that there are other people around, let alone focus on one
individual beauty. But that is exactly what she was—a beauty. Her sundress showcased her curves perfectly and highlighted her
copper hair. And when her blue-green eyes met mine, I couldn’t move, and I was suddenly very aware of the rapid beat of my
heart. I’ve never felt anything like it.
My mind drifts to the Two of Cups card that I pulled last night before I laugh at myself. There’s no way it meant anything
more than the new chef we’ll be hiring.
Out of the three interviews I set up for Monday, one stands out above the rest. Kane Crawford. He was a sous chef at a
larger, higher end restaurant in town before it shut down a few weeks ago. Everyone was surprised to learn that it was closing,
since it seemed to be doing very well, but restaurants are a risky business.
I pull in behind Samsara, backing my SUV into the space next to the door to make unloading easier. Hearing my car, Matt, the
sous chef, steps out of the open back door to help. We unload the produce quickly, and as I move the fruit that will be prepared
at the bar to a single box, Matt begins prepping the vegetables, chopping them and placing them into bins for easy access.
“You’ll be hiring a new chef this week, right, Viv?” he asks, stilling his knife.
“I fucking hope so,” I reply. “I’m so exhausted, and I know you are, too. We really appreciate the extra hours you’re putting
in.”
“No worries. I’m more excited about working with someone new, maybe get a new take on the menu,” he says, peeling
carrots as he speaks. “And, yeah, the help with prepping and cooking won’t hurt, either.”
I laugh. “Yeah, I feel that. I’m really hopeful about a couple of the interviews, and you’ll be the first to know.” Putting out my
fist, he bumps it with his elbow, and I grab the box of lemons, limes, and other drink garnishes to bring them out to the bar, my
mood boosted with the thought that the restaurant will be back to normal soon.
CHAPTER 4

Grace

U nloading my haul onto the counter, I pull a cutting board out of the cabinet and a knife out of its block. I can hear the shower
running, so I know Kane has rolled himself out of bed at last. It’s just after nine o’clock, but it’s early for him lately. It
would be an unexpected treat to get to make breakfast with him.
I pull out the waffle maker to heat, then get started chopping the veggies, and when Kane finally walks into the kitchen, the
bacon is fried and I’m almost prepped. I just need to crack the fresh eggs that I almost forgot to grab at the market.
He saunters in, wearing nothing but gray sweatpants slung low on his hips. I’m frozen for a beat, raking my gaze over the
divots in his firm abs, the lines forming a V at his hips making me lick my lips.
Catching my slow perusal, he chuckles. “Morning, love. What’s all this?”
I blink, my brain working to catch up through the lust coursing through me. “I thought some omelets and waffles would be a
good start to your last relaxing weekend,” I tell him.
He stills, annoyed that I’m trying to make light of his unemployment. With a huff, he comes around the island to stand behind
me, wrapping his arms around my waist. “Sounds great. Sorry I’ve been so grouchy. I can’t wait to be busy again.”
I relax back into him, and he leans down to kiss my neck. “What’s this?” he asks, bringing his hand between my breasts to
flick the charm on my necklace.
“Oh! I got it this morning at the Farmer’s Market. Do you like it?” I turn in his arms, giving him a better view of the sunstone.
“It’s pretty,” he says noncommittally.
“It’s a sunstone. Supposedly, it will bring me happiness and prosperity,” I tell him.
“And it’s pretty,” he adds, his eyebrow raised, making me laugh.
“Come on, help me finish up so we can eat.”

Once breakfast is ready, we settle at the barstools at our kitchen island. I pick up my fork and take a large bite of the omelet, the
taste of bacon settling on my tongue, and moan. Kane quirks a brow at me and smirks, taking a bite of his own omelet. I smile
back and we eat silently, enjoying the quiet morning together.
As I eat, I take in the house, making a mental checklist of the chores I’ll need to get done today. From my vantage point at the
island, the dishes from breakfast are my first concern, spread across the white quartz countertops haphazardly, a drop of waffle
mix making its way down one of the deep gray cabinet doors. To my right, down the hallway by the stairs, my work bag and
multiple sweatshirts are piling up on the console table, so I add clearing the entryway to my list. To the side of the entryway is
our cozy living room, blankets thrown over the back of the sofa and a layer of dust I can see from here coating the TV stand.
I sigh, taking a bite of waffle, topped with sliced strawberries and smothered in maple syrup. Our bedroom and bathroom
upstairs probably need a quick tidy, as well.
“What are you sighing about?” Kane asks. “Not feeling the happy effects of your rock yet?”
I give him my best side eye. “Just thinking about how much cleaning I’ll need to get done today.”
He takes a look around the open floor plan, but I know he sees nothing amiss. “I’ll help so you can get some relaxing in. Want
a Bloody Mary?”
“That sounds amazing, but no, thank you. But your help with cleaning would be great,” I tell him sincerely. “Are you ready
for that interview on Monday?”
“I think so. If they ask me mostly questions about food, it won’t be a problem. And with a place as small as Samsara, it
shouldn’t be too difficult.”
“Cocky.”
“Well, I’m amazing.” He smirks. “Are you ready for Easter at your parents’ in a couple weeks?”
I groan and run my hand down my face dramatically. “Never. You know it will just be hours of, ‘When are you having
babies, Grace? Why don’t you come back to church, Grace? I didn’t waste all that money on a private college for you to be a
receptionist, Grace.’ Can we just stay home?”
“You’re the one who cares about pissing off your parents,” he reminds me, leaning back to sip his coffee. Our food has been
devoured and I am almost regretting not taking him up on his offer to make me a Bloody Mary, but I have too much to do. A
drink would just make me sleepy and I’ll end up on the couch getting nothing done.
“Rocking the boat just isn’t worth it,” I say, not even convincing myself.
“If you say so.” He shrugs, then stands, stretching his arms above his head. “Why don’t I do the dishes and clean up the
kitchen? And you can get started with… whatever else you think needs cleaning.” He looks around again, clearly not seeing an
issue with the clutter and dust.
I stand and reach up on my tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “Thank you.”
“Oh, wait. Did you get anything else at the Farmer’s Market besides your new necklace?”
“Nope,” I say, instantly feeling guilty for the vision of the woman in black flashing behind my eyes. “Just the veggies and
eggs.”
Wrapping me in his arms, he squeezes me to his chest, and I inhale the scent of his body wash, the sage and bergamot
flooding my senses. His lips land on my forehead and I close my eyes, enjoying his warmth and the love he pours into me. “I
love you,” he whispers into my hair.
I lean back, looking into his eyes. “I love you, too.”
We part to get started on our chores, and as I grab an armful of sweatshirts to take to the laundry room, my guilt over thinking
of someone else while enjoying breakfast with my husband weighs me down.
But, on the other hand, Kane did say that I could explore my sexuality with a woman if I wanted to. It’s been a few years
since we’ve discussed it, so maybe it’s time for another conversation. Maybe he’d be fine with my interest in the woman I felt
such a connection with. But would he be fine with more than sex?
And will I ever even see her again?
CHAPTER 5

Viv

“I have over ten years of experience as a chef,” the man we are interviewing says, his board shorts and greasy shirt making
my mouth twist in disgust.
I throw a look at Max, his face mirroring mine. “What type of food have you prepared for past jobs?” he asks. He
insisted on not counting anyone out by their looks, but if it were up to me, I would have sent this guy packing at the door. I can’t
decide if there is a piece of overlooked food rotting somewhere in this kitchen or if the putrid stink is coming from him. My
guess is the latter.
“Oh man, I’ve cooked everything! But my specialty is burgers. For the past three years, I worked at this awesome burger
joint, and you should have seen me! I can flip a patty over six feet above my head,” he boasts. I think he was trying to boast,
anyway.
“Well, that’s… something,” Max says. “Why did you leave if it was so awesome?”
“Some asshole came and bought the place, decided I wasn’t ‘the right fit’ or some shit.” His eyes grow dark, his anger
shining through.
“That sucks, dude. I’m sorry.” Max turns to me. “Any questions, Viv? I think I have what I need.”
“Uh, no. Thank you so much for coming in, Marty. We have a few more interviews, so we’ll let you know by the end of the
week,” I say, plastering a fake smile on my face.
“Alright, then. See ya,” he says, turning and walking out of the kitchen.
Max and I are silent for a minute before he simply says, “Wow.”
“Yeah,” I say, heading out the kitchen door towards my office, Max on my heels. “Let’s go over schedules while we wait for
the next one.”
We sit in the office for the next hour, working out the shifts that the new chef will take. It’s not too difficult, since it will be
mostly the same as our prior head chef, but we’re hoping to make the transition easy for everyone; especially Matt, who has
been a tremendous help over the past month.
As we wrap up the plan for training the new person on their duties outside of the kitchen, Bridgette knocks on the door of my
office and pokes her head in. “Hey guys, Kane Crawford is here for his interview.”
“Thanks, Bridge,” Max says. “I’ll come out in a second.” She leaves, closing the door behind her. “We’ll meet you in the
kitchen. Let’s hope this one goes better.”
He sighs, standing and stalking out of the tiny office. We’d like to hold interviews in this more professional setting, but the
room is barely big enough for the two of us, let alone three.
Locking my computer, I stand and make my way to the kitchen. Max steps in a few moments later. The man, who I assume is
Kane, is right behind him. The second he enters, every one of my senses goes on high alert. His dark hair is swept back, out of
his face, and buzzed short on the sides, highlighting his sharp jawline. I feel the caress of his caramel eyes sweeping over me
as I take in the muscles bulging under his fitted white button-down. The same current runs down my spine as I felt at the
Farmer’s Market yesterday. The similarities between this moment and yesterday, when my eyes met the bright cyan of the
redhead’s, are uncanny. I’ve never met either of them before, but the sense of connection is otherworldly.
Max introduces Kane to me, but I hardly hear him over the blood rushing in my ears. I know they’ve begun the interview, but
I’m so distracted. How could I possibly have this intense feeling of connection with two separate people in as many days?
“When would you be able to start?” Max asks, pulling me back into the here and now.
“Any time. I’ll start first thing tomorrow if you want,” Kane says, his deep voice making my knees go a bit weak.
What is wrong with me? Do I just need to get laid?
“Alright, well, you’ll hear from us by the end of the week,” Max continues, wrapping up the interview. It feels like we’ve
been standing here for only a couple of minutes, but when I glance up at the plain clock on the kitchen wall, I realize it’s been
almost half an hour.
Max and Kane move toward the door to leave the kitchen, so I follow, walking to the front of the restaurant with them.
“It was great to meet you. I look forward to hearing back,” Kane says, grabbing Max’s hand in a firm shake.
“You, too. I think this could be a great fit,” Max replies and gives a nod, turning to walk to the other end of the bar, ready to
begin his prep for the afternoon.
“I agree,” I start. “Once I saw your resume, I had a feeling you’d be our first choice. We only have one interview left today,
but I think you’re perfect.” I reach out my hand to take his, belatedly adding, “For the job! Perfect for the job.”
He chuckles as his hand slides into mine, and all at once, I go rigid, sucking in a sharp breath. My mind is ripped through the
dark wooden door of his Akashic record’s library. In all of my years working in the Akashic practices, I have never been let so
quickly to a specific record, especially without even asking the library to show me a particular record. The vibrations pull me
to a high bookcase; one book, bright red and adorned with the symbol of the trinity etched into the spine, falls into my hands,
flipping open. Flashes of memories from a past life flood me. Two women, one blonde and one with red hair, are laughing with
a dark-haired man, dancing and enjoying a party in what looks like the 1920s. The pages flip again, another image of the same
three in bed together, tangled beneath the sheets.
Slamming the library door, I pull my mind out of the infinite abyss that holds the Akashic records. And as my eyes readjust to
the present, Kane jolts, pulling his hand from mine suddenly. His caramel eyes lock with mine, searching, but I have no idea
what he sees before he turns on his heel and rushes out the front door.
I stare after him, unable to move as I try to understand what the hell had just happened. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows
on either side of the door, I watch as Kane approaches a redheaded woman on the sidewalk. He embraces her and plants a
chaste kiss on her lips, before taking her hand and turning them to walk down the street. And when they turn, my confusion
grows further. She’s my redhead; the woman from the Farmer’s Market on Saturday morning.
Rushing to my office, I grab my bag and keys. As I pass the bar on my way to the door myself, I tell Max that I am going to
run some errands and I’ll be back in a while.
The only way I’ll be able to figure out the chaos that is running rampant in my mind is to see my mentor. He’ll know what’s
going on.

Pushing through the door at Sage House, I instantly feel more at ease. The herbal scents and warmth of burning incense relax
my muscles in a way that nothing else does. Well, except maybe sex.
Waving to Cindy at the register, I walk straight through the store to the heavy burgundy curtain in the back. Stepping through
the opening, I close my eyes, opening my mind to the truths I will learn with James today. I knew he would be meditating at this
time, as he does every day, and I find him right where I expected—sitting cross-legged in front of his altar, deep in meditation.
His styled blonde hair, khaki cargo shorts, and light pink t-shirt are completely at odds with the space surrounding us.
The back room is small, only large enough for his corner altar and the round rug in the center of the room, covered in floor
pillows. I take a seat, content to wait until he’s finished to speak with him. As rushed as I was to get here, the energy of the
store has put me at ease.
In the corner, James is silent, completely in his element. Five years ago, I walked into Sage House, not knowing what it was I
was looking for. To my surprise, I found James, who I knew then as Professor Thompson, my freshman psychology professor. I
hadn’t seen him in a while, being a junior in college at the time, but I had no idea that he had quit teaching and opened the
metaphysical shop.
He is an Akashic records master, holding certificates and teaching classes for beginners, but for a select few, myself
included, he mentors well beyond the beginning stage. He helped me open my mind in ways I didn’t know possible.
I settle into my own meditation, closing my eyes, breathing deeply, and retreating into my mind. A while later, I open my eyes
to find James seated before me.
He doesn’t say anything, simply reaches out his hands for my own. Akashic records, simply put, are the recordings of the
energies of everything that has ever taken place throughout history. In the records, one can find any event, emotion, thought,
intent in the past, present, or even future of a soul. If you only ask the right questions.
From our years of friendship, James is attuned to my soul, and as such, within moments, he has the gist of my current angst.
“Tell me about them,” he says, cutting right to the heart of the issue.
 “I can’t because I don’t even know them,” I tell him. “I only saw her the other day, and it was as if I were struck by lightning.
My feet were lead, and I wanted to run to her and run from her all at once. Then he came into the restaurant today, and we’ll
likely be hiring him as our new head chef, but the same happened. I am drawn to them, connected to them, but that’s not the
worst part…” I trail off, my thoughts moving a mile a minute.
“Okay, so what’s so much worse than finding two soulmates this week?” He smirks at me.
I glare back. “The worst part is that they are together—a couple. I can’t act on these feelings because they seem happy. I
can’t be responsible for breaking them up.”
“Who says they need to break up? What is meant to be will be, Viv. And from what I can see, the three of you are meant to
be,” he says, sincerity in his eyes.
When I only sigh, he continues, “Fate rules all things; this we know to be true. Life is destined and cannot be changed. Don’t
fight it. These feelings, that lightning, are just fate at work in your life for once.”
I take a deep breath at his words. “Thanks, James. I know that everything you’re saying is true, but… I have to give this some
time to sink in,” I tell him, standing. “I need to go.”
“You know I’m here for you. Whatever you need.”
I nod and turn, pushing through the curtain.
Stepping back out onto the sidewalk, I am more confused than ever. We have to hire Kane for the future of Samsara; there is
no way around it. Guess my feelings will just have to figure themselves out.
CHAPTER 6

Kane

O nsince
Tuesday, I got a call from Viv, the owner at Samsara, letting me know that they’d love to hire me as their head chef. And
that call, I haven’t been able to keep the smile off my face.
It’s Monday morning, and today will be my first day back at work. From what I understand, it will be a day of paperwork
and menu planning, but that’s just fine with me. Anything for the promise of being back in a kitchen and out of the house.
Still lying in the comfort of our warm bed, I reach my arm out, but find Grace’s side empty. I pry my eyes open to look
around the room, but it’s also empty, but I hear the water on in the shower. Hoping to catch her before she is done, I climb out
of bed and strip off my sleep pants and boxer briefs on my way to the bathroom.
The en suite bathroom is the nicest room in the house, with heated black tile floors, white subway tile covering the walls of
the shower and backsplash above the black quartz countertop. Dark green paint and cream accents bring the space together just
as Grace intended. I stop in the doorway for a moment, watching her silhouette behind the frosted glass, rinsing her hair, before
sliding the door open and stepping into the stall.
My cock is already hard in my hand when I step into her, pulling her back to my front with my other hand splayed on her flat
stomach. She rests her head back against my shoulder, water dripping down my abs from her hair that ends just below her
shoulders. At five-foot-four, she is the perfect height for me to wrap her in my six-foot-three frame.
Leaning down to kiss her neck, I mumble, “Good morning, love.”
“Good morning,” she replies sweetly, turning in my arms. She immediately wraps her hand around my cock, pushing my hand
off to allow it to roam over her body. I take her mouth with mine, pushing my tongue past her lips, making her moan into me.
As she continues torturing me with her small hand, I squeeze her breasts, rolling the nipples between my fingers and
pinching. Her head tips back, her eyes closed, as soft whimpers escape her lips. I groan when her other hand cups my balls,
rolling them gently in her palm.
“Shit, your hands feel amazing.” Grabbing her hips, I spin us, taking her place under the hot water. “Turn around and bend
over, hands on the tile.”
She does as she’s told immediately, bending at the waist and raising on to her toes to put her at the right height. I cup her ass
in my large hands, kneading her flesh with my fingers and spreading her open for me. Her breath is coming in pants, her back
rising and falling rapidly. “Please, Kane. Take me,” she begs.
I don’t make her wait, almost ready to explode over her back just from her hands on me. Moving my hand down, I run my
fingers through her slickness, spreading it to her clit. Her low moan as I circle there makes my hips buck, the head of my dick
throbbing with need. I tease her until she’s on the edge, whimpering and riding my hand.
Grabbing her hips again, I plunge into her, her heat enveloping me. Sinking balls deep, I still, allowing her to adjust to me as
I attempt to hold back my impending orgasm.
“Fuck me, baby. I’m so close,” she grits out, grinding back against me.
I hum. “Me, too, love. Brace yourself. This is gonna be fast.”
And with that, I pull back, thrusting into her hard. I pound into her, relishing in her moans echoing around me, the sound
drowning me in her pleasure. On a loud cry, her pussy clenches, letting me know she’s right there. Reaching around her body,
the hot water still beating down on my back, making steam rise around us, I pinch her nipple.
“Yes! Fuck!” she yells, convulsing around my length, and I follow her. Releasing deep inside of her, a growl forms in my
throat.
Coming down from the high of our climaxes, I bend over her and wrap her in my arms to take her weight as I drop kisses
along her spine.
“Love you,” I murmur against her neck, then pull out slowly.
 “Love you, too, baby,” she replies, turning and pushing me out of the way to get back under the hot water.
I chuckle, allowing her to wash up before stepping under the stream myself. She presses a kiss to my chest, then steps out of
the shower, leaving me to finish up and get ready for my first day. And after that start, it’s sure to be a good one.

The scent of coffee fills my nose as I descend the stairs, meeting Grace in the kitchen where she’s setting plates of bacon and
eggs on the island.
“Aww, you made me breakfast?” I ask with a smile.
“It’s your first day. You need sustenance.” She climbs onto a bar stool and takes a sip of coffee as I do the same.
“Thanks, love.”
After taking a few bites, Grace turns to me. “Tell me more about the restaurant. Do you like the owners?”
My thoughts immediately jump to Viv and the electricity that ran up my arm when we shook hands, the crazed look in her
eyes. All week, I’ve had trouble thinking about anything else. She’s gorgeous, of course, in a completely different way than
Grace. But I’m a married man who loves his wife more than anything. The sparks meant nothing, or so I keep telling myself.
“They seem cool. Max runs the bar, so I’ll be working with him on drink pairings, but probably won’t work with him closely
very much. Viv is in charge of all the backend stuff, the day-to-day, so she’ll probably be my go to. She’s… interesting, and
seemed kind of nervous during the interview,” I say, feeling guilty about not telling Grace that I’m attracted to her. It doesn’t
matter as long as I don’t act on it, right? But we’re always honest with each other. “I don’t know if something I did or said
made her act that way, or if that’s just how she is all the time.”
She laughs, standing to take our plates around to the sink. “It was probably because you’re hot.” She winks at me over her
shoulder, making me laugh in return.
“I’ll do the dishes so you can head to work. I’ll probably leave pretty soon, so I can get an early start.”
After thanking me with a deep, leisurely kiss, she leaves. I clean up the kitchen, then get in my truck to head Downtown, as
well, parking in the only empty spot behind Samsara. Starting a new job is always the same—anxiety, paperwork, and fake
friendliness until you get a feel for everyone’s personalities. I hate this part, but beyond the nerves, I’m excited for the positive
changes I’ll be able to make here.
Climbing out of the truck, I walk through the back door and head straight for Viv’s office. I knock lightly and the door opens,
Max leaning back in the chair in front of Viv’s desk with his hand on the knob, able to reach it from his seat.
“Hey man, good to see you,” he greets me. Standing, he adds, “I’ll leave you guys to it.”
Moving into the office, I take the seat he vacated, waiting for Viv to tell me what I need to do. “One second,” she says, her
eyes focused on her computer screen as she types. I take the opportunity to study her in her element. I’ve only met her once
before, and she seemed out of sorts. Today, her dreadlocks are pulled up in a high, thick ponytail, dark makeup shadowing her
eyes, and her lips a deep burgundy. I can’t see her legs from her seat at the desk, but her leather jacket is slung over the back of
her chair. The black, loose-necked tank top she’s wearing shows off her full-sleeve tattoos that extend across her chest and
throat. I have the urge to lick the designs disappearing between her cleavage.
I shake myself. No, Kane. Think about Grace, the love of your fucking life.
“Sorry about that,” she says finally, looking up at me. Her eyes roam my face, chest, and arms for a moment, then she takes a
deep breath and gives me a small smile. “Unfortunately, it’s paperwork day. I have a packet here for you to fill out, then we can
jump into ordering. You’ll be taking that over as soon as possible.”
“Sounds good,” I say, taking the packet from her and grabbing a pen from the cup on her desk.
As I fill out the forms, she works quietly on her computer, rolling her eyes and letting out small sighs every few minutes. I
smile to myself, enjoying her sounds of annoyance at her administrative tasks. Hopefully, I’ll be able to take some of it off her
plate.
I glance up, watching her eyes roll again, but she catches me. Her gaze locks with mine for a moment, then she bites her lip. I
follow the movement, seeing the moment she realizes what she’s doing, and releases the lip from the tight hold of her teeth.
Looking back down at the form in front of me, I smile to myself, but frown just as quickly. I can’t decide if it’s a good or bad
thing that she’s just as affected as I am.
A while later, I sit up straight with a groan and Viv looks my way. “Done. Finally.”
“Awesome. I think I’m at a good stopping point, too, so we can go over the menu,” she says, taking the paperwork from me to
add to her stack of work.
 She sets copies of the brunch menu and lunch/dinner menu in front of me. “As Max told you during the interview, we are
open for brunch Friday through Sunday and lunch and dinner seven days a week. On days that you are off, usually Sunday and
Monday after you’ve trained every day of the week to get the feel for each day’s vibe, Matt, your sous chef, will take the lead.
We’re pretty open to changes to the menu, outside of the signature dishes that sell very well.”
“Okay, perfect. I looked over the menu on the website and have some ideas. But my wife, Grace, told me that if I changed the
rosemary cranberry sauce for the filet before she gets to try it, she’d gut me, so I guess that stays.” I smirk, remembering Grace
looking at my laptop screen over my shoulder and moaning as she read the description.
Viv laughs. “You should have her come in some time to try it. I’d love to meet her.”
The thought of Grace meeting Viv makes me pause. Grace has mentioned before that she likes women, but not since we have
been married. Would she be interested in Viv, too? And if so, would it be a dream or a nightmare?
“Absolutely. She works a couple of blocks away, so she’ll probably come in a decent amount.”
“Where does she work?” Viv asks, genuinely interested.
“She is a receptionist at a law firm. And she hates it,” I add. “I keep telling her that she should quit and find a job she’s
passionate about, maybe teach yoga.”
“My best friend just opened the studio next door. Her specialty is pole dancing, but they have yoga classes. I can get her a
pass if she wants.”
“Grace would love that,” I tell her. Grace has mentioned the classes offered at the new studio more than once, but hasn’t
tried them out yet. And it would be great if she made some new friends outside of her parents' approved circle. She doesn’t
speak to many of the women from her old church anymore, and I know she would love having some girl friends.
Making my way to the kitchen to help Matt prep for lunch, I’m buoyed by the positive tone of my morning with Viv. This
could really be the place I finally land, the career change I’ve needed.
CHAPTER 7

Grace

A sthewithattorneys.
any typical Monday at the firm, I’m beat. The phones were ringing off the hook, one meeting after another booked for
You know what type of people need lawyers? Angry ones. And I’m the lucky person who gets to plaster a
smile on my face and pretend I care about their misfortune.
I’m in need of a drink and a hug from my husband, so when I leave the office, I walk straight to Samsara. Kane’s first day
was sure to be hectic, and his need to learn quickly has resulted in him volunteering to stay for the dinner shift as well. If I
know my husband, for the next month at least, I’ll have to go to the restaurant if I want to see him.
Stepping through the high glass door, I admire the original brick architecture and character of the bar. I select an open stool
and climb up, continuing to take in the atmosphere of the open space. The attractive man behind the bar, who must be Max, one
of the owners, comes over and asks me what I’ll have to drink. I order a dirty vodka martini, and when he comes back to
deliver my drink, I hand him my card. He walks away, looking down at it, then comes right back.
“Grace Crawford…” he starts, his eyebrow hitching up. “You’re Kane’s wife?”
“That’s me.” A warmth only Kane makes me feel spreads through me, knowing he’s told his co-workers about me already.
Max slides my card back across the bar to me and smiles. “I’m Max, and your money's no good here. Kane is a godsend, so
you always drink for free at my bar.”
“Wow, thank you so much!” I say, happy that Kane is appreciated the way he should be. Max makes my drink as he talks and
sets it in front of me.
“Holler if you want another, okay?” he says as he walks away to take another order.
I nod after him, grabbing the stem of my martini glass and sitting back to take a sip. It’s delicious, the perfect mix of vodka
and olive juice, and I sigh. I wish I could work somewhere with amazing people who actually wanted me there, who would
call me a ‘godsend’. I’m pretty sure the only way any of my coworkers would call me that would be if I sucked their dicks.
Then afterwards, they wouldn’t care again, as proven by many who have caught their attention, then failed to keep it.
If I drink for free, I’ll probably be here after work every day at this rate. Maybe I’ll convince Kane to come drink with me
after Easter brunch at my parents’. Less than two weeks from now, I’ll sit at the same dining table I grew up eating at with my
mother berating me about my life choices. I’ll have kids if and when I choose to, and for some reason, she can’t seem to
understand that it’s my choice, not hers.
I lift the glass to my lips again to find it empty. Looking around for Max, I don’t find him behind the bar, but coming out of the
door near the back of the restaurant that probably leads to the kitchen. It’s confirmed when, a moment later, Kane walks
through, his eyes finding mine right away. I smile up at him as he approaches me, leaning down to kiss me briefly on the lips.
“Hi, love,” he says, his deep voice rumbling through me. Seven years together and this man still sets my world on fire.
“Another one?” Max’s voice chimes in, having taken his place behind the bar again.
I reluctantly release Kane’s gaze, looking at Max. “Yes, please.”
He nods and begins pouring the liquor for my martini into a shaker, and I’m so distracted by what he’s doing and Kane’s
warmth over my shoulder, I don’t realize that another person has joined our little group.
“Grace,” Kane says from behind me. “This is Viv, Max’s sister, and the other owner.”
I turn with a smile, but it falters as my eyes land on… her. The woman from the Farmer’s Market. The woman who I can’t
stop thinking about. She’s here, and she is Kane’s new boss.
Her gray eyes, shadowed by dark makeup and long lashes, catch mine and I swallow thickly. I attempt to put the smile back
on my face as I stammer out, “N-nice to meet you. I’m Grace.”
Our eyes stay locked, neither of us able to look away as Kane says, “Oh shit. Matt needs me. Bye, love. I’ll see you at
home.” He plants a kiss on my head and rushes to the kitchen door, where Matt is waving him over.
 “Mind if I sit? I was actually coming out to get a drink myself,” Viv says, breaking the tension between us.
“Of course.” My mind is going haywire. This doesn’t feel like merely a coincidence.
Viv sits next to me and I have to force myself to look over at her as she says, “So, Kane told me you like yoga.”
“Um, yeah. I haven’t been to a class in a while, but I try to get a session in every day.” I can hear the nervousness in my
voice, but I hope she can’t. Max sets my second martini in front of me and something that looks like whiskey in front of Viv. I
pick my glass up and take a big gulp, hoping the alcohol will help to tamp down my anxiety at having this woman so close.
“I was telling Kane this morning that my best friend, Abby, owns the new studio next door. They mainly focus on dance and
pole, but they offer yoga classes, too. I can get you a pass if you’d like to try it out.” She takes a sip of her drink and I watch her
lips on the edge of the glass, her tongue peeking out to catch a stray drop. When she swallows, so do I, a lump forming in my
throat.
“That would be great. I’ve looked at their website and have been wanting to try it since it’s so close to work. I just haven’t
had a chance.” Taking another sip, I force myself to try harder, to get to know Viv. “So, Max is your brother? Do you have any
other family in town?”
“No, it’s just me and Max. Our parents passed away a few years ago—car crash—but we’ve made our own family. Max has
his boyfriend, Jasper, now, and Abby is more like our sister. She is marrying her fiance, Kolson, next month.”
“I’m so sorry about your parents,” I tell her sincerely.
“It’s been a long time, but thank you,” she says, turning her glass in her hands.
“What about you? Do you have a boyfriend… or girlfriend?” I ask, not sure which answer I want to hear more. If she’s
attached, I can let this connection I feel to her go. But if she’s single… I can’t even finish the thought. I have no idea what I
would—or could—do. I’m married.
Viv laughs. “I’m single, perpetually so. I’m not sure if something serious is in the cards for me.”
I just hum, letting the conversation drop and sit back again to sip my drink. Max comes back over to us to ask Viv about
something, and I just relax, listening to their easy banter. They’re clearly close, and a wave of jealousy hits me. I want this—a
family who loves me unconditionally. But more than anything, at this moment, I want Viv.
CHAPTER 8

Viv

L aying my head back and closing my eyes, I breathe in the scent of peppermint from the candle I just lit. My office is stifling,
the six-by-six windowless box allowing no air flow. Usually, some caffeine will give me enough of a boost to get me
through the endless spreadsheets and emails I have to wade through daily, but not today.
Another Monday, an entire week without laying eyes on the adorable redhead I want to call mine. The image of her at the
Farmer’s market in that yellow dress, a sunstone around her neck, plays on repeat in my mind, only interrupted by the light,
feminine sound of her voice as she asked me about my family.
I know that I shouldn’t want her, shouldn’t be pining away after both Grace and her husband, but James’ words come back to
me.
These feelings are just fate at work in your life for once.
Becoming a home wrecker was not on my bingo card. Even if—and that’s a huge if—the three of us somehow came together,
jealousy would tear us apart, tear them apart. How could it ever work?
They are so happy together. Almost every day, Kane has a new story about her, the love in his eyes shining through with
every word. I have to let this go, allow them the courtesy of not showing my feelings for them. No more longing looks or
accidental hand brushes when I’m working with Kane, and whenever I see Grace, I will just see where this new friendship
goes. For the sake of my working relationship with her husband.
In only a week, Kane has brought new life to Samsara. His changes to the menu have already been well received, and the rest
of the staff love him. I hear his praises every day. I refuse to be the reason he leaves. Not for me, but for the restaurant.
A knock sounds at the door before it swings open, hitting the chair in front of my desk. I lift my head to find Max in the
doorway, leaning against the doorframe with a grin on his stupid face.
“Asleep on the job?” he jokes, crossing his arms over his muscled chest.
I huff. “Just trying to find the motivation to work on next week’s schedule. What’s up?”
“Wanted to make sure you are still helping with my move this weekend. Kolson and Abby can help, right?”
“We’ll all be there. I’ll bring coffee. Matt and Bridgette are holding down the fort for brunch,” I tell him, having scheduled it
weeks ago.
“Perfect. I don’t have a ton, but we’ll need help to get the furniture downstairs and loading it into the donation truck, so
Kolson will be an enormous help.”
“Moving?” Kane asks, coming up behind Max. Max steps aside so they are both in the doorway facing me.
“Yeah, on Saturday morning. Just across town,” Max tells him.
“Grace and I can help. I’m off Saturday, and we’re free.”
“I feel so special,” Max gloats, resting his hand over his heart. “With all the people who love me coming to help, we’ll each
only have to carry one box.” He smiles and chuckles at his own joke as I roll my eyes, making Kane laugh. “But really, even if
there isn’t enough for everyone to do, we’d love to have you. Viv is bringing coffee. And donuts.” He winks at me. Guess I’m
bringing donuts and spending Saturday morning with both of my crushes.
Max fist bumps Kane before heading back toward the bar, and Kane comes into my office, taking a seat in the open chair. His
chef’s jacket is unbuttoned, showing his plain white t-shirt and the defined muscles underneath.
Clearing my throat, I look from his chest up into his eyes across from me. His smirk is knowing and only grows as I fidget,
waiting for him to say whatever he came in to say.
“I just wanted to make sure that it’s still fine that I take Easter morning off. I can come in for dinner,” he says, his smug smirk
still tipping up the side of his mouth, and it’s then I notice the sage and bergamot intertwining with the peppermint from my
candle. My traitorous vag clenches around nothing as the scent invades my space.
 “Uh, yeah. That’s fine. We’re doing the limited menu we discussed for the holiday, anyway,” I tell him, having talked to him
about this on Friday. So why is he in my office? “If Grace isn’t busy, she can come hang out at the bar. I’ll probably be around
the entire day.”
“No Easter plans?” he asks.
“I don’t celebrate many of the… major holidays.”
His head tips to the side in question, but doesn’t press. When I don’t offer up any more information, he adds, “Grace will
probably come out that night. The brunch we have to go to is at her parents’. They’re pretty religious, like Grace was home-
schooled and only had friends from church until she met me type of religious, and she dreads every visit. I’m sure she’ll be
ready for more than a couple of drinks afterward.”
“She doesn’t get along with them?” I ask, curious if she’s still into all the church stuff.
He laughs. “She tries her best, but all her mom does is ask about babies. We aren’t even sure we want kids. And before
every meal, she bows her head and loudly prays for us–that we will come back to church and find salvation. It’s all extremely
dramatic.”
“Sounds like it.” I grimace at the picture he paints. “So you and Grace aren’t religious, I take it?”
“No. I didn’t grow up going to church–my parents raised me and my brothers to be independent and to forge our own paths,
which I’m incredibly grateful for. And Grace, well, she’s more… spiritual, I guess, with her crystals and yoga and shit.” He
shrugs as I smile. “What?” he asks, eyeing my grin.
“‘And shit,’” I mock. “Sounds like Grace and I may just get along. Although, my ‘shit’ is a whole lot more than crystals and
yoga.” Once again, I offer no more, tot used to people looking at me like I’m a nutcase once they learn that I consider myself a
witch. It’s not like I think I’m Sabrina or something, but the practice of witchcraft is a huge part of my life. A part that no one
can take from me, no matter how crazy they think I am.
“I bet…” he murmurs, a small smile on his face. I try to interpret the look in his eyes, attempting to determine if it says, ‘this
bitch is nuts’, but no matter how hard I try to look past it, all I see is an unmistakable desire sending bats fluttering in my belly.
When he stands to leave, closing the door behind him, I can only stare. But then, I convince myself that I have to be wrong.
Even if our attraction is mutual, there’s no way a man like Kane–who is a very happily married man–would show his lust that
openly.
I turn back to my computer, the peppermint and false flutters giving me the adrenaline and focus I need to get some work
done. And as I open up my first spreadsheet of the day, I decide to invite Grace to the Beltane celebration with me on the first
of May. If she’s spiritual ‘and shit’, maybe she’d enjoy seeing another side to it.
CHAPTER 9

Kane

I ’m standing in the bathroom, swiping some pomade through my hair that’s getting a bit too long, when Grace stomps in. She
stops in front of her sink with a huff, setting her half-empty mug of coffee down on the countertop a bit too hard, making
coffee splash out.
Even in a bad mood, she’s gorgeous. She spent an hour blow drying her hair with a round brush this morning and putting on a
layer of natural-looking makeup. Her modest, emerald green floral dress flows to her knees and has a high neckline. Not that
her mom will care; nothing Grace does to please her is ever enough. I’ve defended her enough times to know that it only makes
her more anxious, so I end up having to sit back and watch her be berated. One day, she’ll snap and decide she’s had enough.
And I can’t wait.
I smile as I go into the walk-in closet and grab a pale blue button-down, buttoning it in the doorway so I can watch her
unleash hell on her teeth with her toothbrush. I bite back a laugh when she scowls into the mirror, scrubbing vigorously, but she
hears the strangled sound that breaks through and her eyes snap to mine.
Spitting into the sink, she stares at me through the mirror. “What?”
“Oh, nothing. Having a good morning so far, love?” I ask, unable to contain my grin.
She only huffs again in response, pushing past me in her white wedge sandals that bring the top of her head to my shoulder. I
follow her down the stairs, where she rinses her mug and puts it in the dishwasher before pushing past me again to grab her
purse.
“Well, are you coming?” she asks, standing by the door.
I grab her wrist and pull her into me, her chest against mine, and look down at her. Sliding my hand into her hair and rubbing
my thumb along her jaw, I bring her face to mine for a light kiss. “Everything is going to be fine, and if you want to leave, just
say the word,” I tell her, her breath warm against my lips.
She takes a deep breath, her eyes still closed. “Thank you. I couldn’t do this without you.”
I kiss her again, tilting her head and plunging my tongue into her mouth. She melts against me, her tension releasing with
every swipe of my tongue over hers. My cock grows hard behind the zipper of my gray slacks, and thoughts of taking her
upstairs and fucking her mercilessly until it’s too late to go to her parents’ house invade my mind. But before I can act on it, she
pulls back.
“We’d better go. You know Mom hates it when we’re late.” She plants one last peck on my lips before moving out of my
hold and smoothing her already perfect dress.
“Seriously, Grace. We can just stay home, maybe go to Samsara for brunch, and you can just stay at the bar all day and get
trashed. Viv even invited you,” I tell her as we make our way to my truck.
Her eyes go wide for a moment, but her face is back to the impassive mask she’s been wearing since I kissed away her
scowl so quickly that I could have imagined it. “She did? When?”
“Last week when I double-checked with her that it was fine I was out this morning.”
We climb into the cab and drive across town, the sounds of cars rushing past and music playing quietly, keeping me occupied
as Grace stews silently beside me, her hand in mine. When we pull up in front of the house she grew up in, a plain, suburban
ranch-style house that has seen better days, she lets out a long breath and opens the door.
I grab her hand as I round the hood, walking to the front door together. She rings the doorbell, and almost immediately it
swings open, her mother standing on the other side. “It’s so wonderful of you two to show up!” she exclaims, her eyes hard as
if we’ve made them wait all day.
I peek at my watch, which shows we are two minutes early. We should have stayed in the car. When Grace just plasters on a
fake smile and steps inside to give her mom a forced hug, I fill the silence. “It’s great to see you, Mrs. Sampson,” I say.
“Something smells wonderful.”
“Oh, Kane, always the charmer.” Grace steps away, allowing me to give her mom a hug, as well.
“The truth isn’t charm. You know I just love food.”
“Yes, well, I can’t wait for you to try the new recipe I made. I got it from a wonderful woman at church! She makes it every
Sunday, so I just had to try it.” Turning back to Grace, she looks her up and down. “Oh, honey, you really shouldn’t wear so
much makeup. It makes you look like a common whore.” She whispers the last word, as though saying it quietly will make the
blow easier to take.
Grace’s smile falters, but she politely says, “I’ll keep that in mind, Mom.”
“While you’re at it, pantyhose never hurt anybody.” With that, she walks toward the kitchen to check on the food. “Go say
hello to your father. He’s in the living room.”
Grace takes another deep breath before taking a step toward the living room, but I catch her wrist. “Good?” I ask,
swallowing back the fury that soars through my veins.
She looks up at me, the light blush on her cheeks and mascara the only makeup on her beautiful face, and nods.

Grace’s dad finally turned the TV off when we sat down to eat. A man of few words, I couldn’t help but wonder if being
married to a woman who doesn’t shut her mouth made him that way. From the way Grace talks about him, it seems to me that he
never took the time to do much more than work, go to church, and watch sports.
Settling a large quiche filled with bacon and broccoli on the table, Mrs. Sampson smiles. “Isn’t it beautiful?” she asks,
seeking praise.
“Smells delicious, Mom,” Grace says, pretending her own mother doesn’t know that she detests broccoli.
“Yes, Mrs. Sampson, I can’t wait to try it,” I say, and she responds by serving me a slice that could feed three.
“You should make something like this at that new restaurant of yours.” She smiles at me as she dishes up portions for the rest
of the table.
“That’s a great idea.” Poking the quiche with my fork, I realize that it’s not quite done, and it makes my stomach roll.
Taking a huge bite, Grace’s mom hums, appreciating her meal. “So,” she starts, putting down her fork, and I tense,
anticipating the inquisition. “My friend who I got this recipe from was just blessed with her fifth grandbaby. Can you believe
it? Her children are even younger than you, Grace. I pray every day that I will be holding a little blessing of my own soon.”
Grace stares down at her plate with her hands in her lap, but I can see the tension rolling off her in waves. Her chest rises
and falls with deep inhales, trying to keep her calm. “And how are your friends at church?” I ask, trying to redirect the
conversation to safer topics.
“Oh, you know, just busy with their families and volunteer work for the church. Our new pastor is wonderful. He really
encourages everyone to serve others as well as the Lord. I still pray that the two of you will come back. Faith and our
responsibility for spreading the word are so important, and I just worry about what will happen if you both lose sight of that.”
Mr. Sampson grunts his agreement as she continues, Grace still staring at the quiche on her plate as I push mine around on my
plate. “Marriage is built on trust and faith, and God has joined you together to bear children—”
“That’s enough!”
We all turn to Grace, her face red with rage.
“Grace—”
“No, Mom. We are adults. You don’t get to determine when or if we have children or where we spend our Sundays. You
don’t have the right to tell me how to dress, how much makeup to wear, and you especially cannot dictate our religious beliefs!
People do not have to believe the same thing that you do to still be good, and it’s ridiculous to think otherwise.” She stands, her
chair scraping across the floor when the back of her knees connect with it, and I stand with her, taking her hand.
Her parents wear matching looks of shock and outrage at their daughter’s outburst, but my heart is pounding with pride as I
walk toward the door, towing Grace behind me.
CHAPTER 10

Grace

P eople do not have to believe the same thing that you do to still be good.
I have wanted to say that to my mother for as long as I can remember. It felt amazing to finally get it off my chest and see
the absolute indignation on her face. She can pretend to be better than everyone because of where she spends Sunday morning,
but I know the truth. She and my dad are hypocrites who judge everyone and everything around them based on a backward
faith.
Opening my eyes and rolling my head to the left on the seat back, I look over at Kane in the driver’s seat of his truck. I hadn’t
been in the right headspace this morning to really look at him as we got ready and drove to my parents’. But with the fog lifted
in my brain, the absolute liberation of this moment, I see him in a new light.
My husband, the love of my life, the person who allows me to be completely and unapologetically myself without judgment
or condemnation. With him, I am able to speak my truths and know without a doubt that, at the end of every day, he loves me
unconditionally. And as I look at him now, his biceps straining against the thin cotton of his button-down shirt and a small smile
on his lips, I know I’ve finally done the right thing. I’ve granted us the freedom to just be.
He looks over at me, catching me staring, and smiles. “Yes, love?”
I grin back. “Just thinking about where we go from here.”
He hums. “Well, where do you want to go?”
I think for a moment, deciding it’s time to tell him the one secret I’ve kept from him. The one that could make or break us.
“First, I think, Samsara. Because I deserve a drink.”
He chuckles at that. “Agreed. I’m so proud of you, baby.”
“And second, um, well,” I start, looking for the right words. My eyebrows dip and my lips screw up as I sort my thoughts.
He glances over, concern on his face. “And second?” he prompts.
Fuck it. “I have to tell you something, and I don’t want it to hurt you or make you think I am not absolutely happy.”
“Okay…”
“I like Viv,” I blurt out, then I can’t stop, the words spilling out in a torrent. “Not as a friend, but as more. I’m attracted to her
—her personality, her body, just her. And I know we’ve only talked about the possibility of me being with another woman
once, and it’s been years, so you probably forgot about it or thought that I wasn’t interested anymore, but the truth is that I’ve
been so happy with you all these years that I never even thought about being interested in someone else. But when I saw Viv for
the first time at that Farmer’s Market, I couldn’t stop it. There was electricity, Kane, as if I were struck by lightning, and we
never even spoke. It’s—”
“Grace, stop,” he says with a chuckle. “It’s okay. Believe me, I’ve never forgotten, and I had a feeling that one day this
would happen.”
“Wait, so… it’s okay? I didn’t just end our marriage?”
“By thinking someone is hot? No, love, you’d have to do much more than that.”
My hope falters for a moment; he doesn’t understand that it is more. So much more than physical attraction.
But he continues, “I guess it’s time for my own confession, then.” I look back at him with wide eyes. Is he about to tell me
that he is interested in someone? I’m not the jealous type, but—no. If things were reversed, I don’t think I could allow him to be
with someone else. “I am attracted to Viv, too.”
I deflate and a wide grin spreads across my face. “Physically? Or… more?” Before I start rambling again, I have to get a
feel for what he’s truly saying. Could this be real?
“Uh, like you so eloquently said, I like her personality, her body. I would never act on it, Grace. I don’t want you to think I
need anyone more than you, either, but it’s been… an adjustment, working with her every day.” He grimaces, obviously feeling
guilty for his feelings.
“So… what do we do?” I ask, knowing exactly what I’m hoping for, but I’m not sure I want to say it first.
“I guess we have two options.” I nod, encouraging him to continue. “We can ignore it and hope our crushes go away,” my
face falls and I know he sees it, “or we can just see what happens. Not try to stop our feelings, but—and this is the most
important part—our communication and trust need to be stronger than ever. No secrets, no hiding. Flirting, kissing, more… we
tell each other.”
I nod again, in full agreement. A smile lights up my face, and I see it mirrored in his.
“And, Grace?”
“Yeah?”
“Nothing will ever tear us apart. You are my priority. If something happens between me and Viv, you and Viv, us and Viv,
you and I will always be okay. Promise me that.” He pulls into our driveway, putting the truck in park and shutting off the
engine. Unclicking his seatbelt, he turns to me, his expression earnest.
I unbuckle my own seatbelt and climb across the bench seat to straddle him. Taking his face in my hands, I leave my forehead
against his. “You and me. Always.”
I press my lips to his, sealing our promise with a kiss.

After fixing our own brunch at home, since we didn’t actually eat any of the undercooked eggs my mom served us, we changed
and headed Downtown to Samsara. The brunch crowd had fizzled out by the time we arrived, and Kane went straight into the
kitchen to help prep dinner while I sat down at the bar.
Bridgette, the bartender I hadn’t met yet, waves to Kane as he walks back and bounds over to me.
“Hi!” she greets me, a grin on her face. “You’re Grace, right? Kane’s wife?” At my nod, she continues, “I’m Bridgette. Max
has told me so much about you.”
“Good things, I hope,” I say, attempting a lame joke.
She giggles. “Of course! A dirty martini, right? Or did you want something else?”
“That’s perfect.” I smile back. Everyone who works at Samsara is so welcoming, and I am reminded again of how grateful I
am that Kane found this place.
Finishing up with another customer, Max comes over to chat. I ask him about his move, excited to see the friend group all
together for the first time, and he tells me the plan—where he’s moving from and to, about Jasper’s house, and who all will be
there to help. Moving isn’t fun, but I’m excited to help a friend and meet his boyfriend.
Viv comes out of her office just as people start showing up for their dinner reservations and calls Max over to the other end
of the bar. I watch them curiously, jealous again of their close relationship. As much as my mother wants me to have children,
she and Dad only had me, but they never told me why. I would have loved to have someone to grow up with, to commiserate
with another person who shared my same experiences.
When Max steps away to take a drink order, Viv notices me for the first time. A tight smile appears on her face for a moment,
then she disappears into her office again. I am worried I did something to upset her, or that I’m not actually supposed to be
hanging out at the restaurant again, taking up a seat a paying customer could be occupying, before she reappears a moment later,
walking toward the end of the bar where I’m sitting and taking the stool beside me.
“Hey,” she says, a genuine smile lighting up her face and making her gray eyes shine. “I haven’t seen you in a while, so I
haven’t been able to give you this.”
She hands me a membership card to the dance studio, my name printed on the back. “Viv… you didn’t have to do this. I was
expecting, like, a day pass.”
Waving a hand at me, she says, “It’s nothing. Abby was excited to hear about you and Kane and printed it right away.”
“Thank you so much. I’ll try a class this week,” I tell her.
“So, how was brunch?” she asks, waving at Max to bring her a drink and refill mine.
I groan, and she gives me a curious look. “Well, I don’t think we’ll be going to my parents’ house again anytime soon…” I
offer, not wanting to delve back into that mess. “How about you?”
Max sets our drinks in front of us and laughs. When I meet his eyes, confused, he says, “Viv doesn’t celebrate Easter,”
clearly having overheard our conversation.
“No?” I ask, turning back to Viv.
 “No.” She gives Max a look I can’t interpret, chalking it up to a sibling thing. “I celebrate pagan holidays—Ostara, the
spring equinox, and Beltane. Actually, every year I go to the bonfires at the beach for Beltane. You should come with me.” She
gives me a hopeful look before adding, “If it’s something you’re interested in, of course. It’s the first of May.”
“That sounds great. I’d love to come.” I’ve always been interested in pagan beliefs, becoming more familiar with them after
I discovered my love of all things spiritual, but never gave myself the room to explore it further. “What exactly is Beltane all
about?”
“It’s the celebration of the end of spring and the beginning of summer. Traditionally, it’s celebrated with bonfires, a Maypole,
flower crowns, and a huge feast, but for us, it’s bonfires on the beach, a ton of alcohol, and rituals based around thanking
nature,” Viv explains, and I bounce in my seat.
In my excitement, I grab Viv’s hand, but at her wide-eyed look, I pull away. I mutter an apology as Viv becomes a statue,
unmoving, with wide, glassy eyes. After a moment, she stands, retreating quickly to her office, and all I can do is stare after
her, wondering what I did.
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but a fierce strife and commotion, with nothing distinctly visible or
decipherable even yet, but a vague sense of some agony transacting
itself in the dark interior within the loop-holed timbers and rafters,
and of two human arms swung round and round like flails. Then, all
at once, it flashed upon the dreamer what he had been beholding. It
was Judas that was within the hut, and that was the suicide of the
Betrayer.
Every author is to be estimated by specimens of him at his very
best. Dr. John Brown had a favourite phrase for such specimens of
what he thought the very best in the authors he liked. Of a passage,
or of a whole paper, that seemed to him perfect in its kind, perfect in
workmanship as well as in conception, he would say that it was
“done to the quick.” The phrase indicates, in the first place, Dr. John
Brown’s notions of what constitutes true literature of any kind, or at
least true literature of a popular kind, as distinct from miscellaneous
printed matter. It must be something that will reach the feelings.
This being presupposed, then that is best in any author which
reaches the feelings most swiftly and directly,—cuts at once, as it
were, with knife-like acuteness, to the most sensitive depths. That
there are not a few individual passages scattered through Dr. John’s
own writings, and also some entire papers of his, that answer this
description, will have appeared by our review of his writings so far as
they have been yet enumerated. In such papers and passages, as
every reader will observe, even the workmanship is at its best. The
author gathers himself up, as it were; his artistic craft becomes more
decisive and subtle with the heightened glow of his feelings; and his
style, apt to be a little diffuse and slipshod at other times, becomes
nervous and firm.
Of whatever other productions of Dr. John Brown’s pen this may
be asserted, of whatever other things of his it may be said that they
are thus masterly at all points and “done to the quick,” that supreme
praise must be accorded, at all events, to the two papers I have
reserved to the last,—Rab and his Friends and Our Dogs. Among the
many fine and humane qualities of our late fellow-citizen it so
happened that love of the lower animals, and especially of the most
faithful and most companionable of them, was one of the chief. Since
Sir Walter Scott limped along Princes Street, and the passing dogs
used to fawn upon him, recognising him as the friend of their kind,
there has been no such lover of dogs, no such expert in dog-nature,
in this city at least, as was Dr. John Brown. It was impossible that he
should leave this part of himself, one of the ruling affections of his
life, unrepresented in his literary effusions. Hence, while there are
dogs incidentally elsewhere in his writings, these two papers are all
but dedicated to dogs. What need to quote from them? What need to
describe them? They have been read, one of them at least, by perhaps
two millions of the English-reading population of the earth: the very
children of our Board Schools know the story of Rab and his Friends.
How laughingly it opens; with what fun and rollick we follow the two
boys in their scamper through the Edinburgh streets sixty years ago
after the hullabaloo of the dog-fight near the Tron Kirk! What a
sensation on our first introduction, in the Cowgate, under the South
Bridge, to the great Rab, the carrier’s dog, rambling about idly “as if
with his hands in his pockets,” till the little bull-terrier that has been
baulked of his victory in the former fight insanely attacks him and
finds the consequence! And then what a mournful sequel, as we
come, six years afterwards, to know the Howgate carrier himself and
his wife, and the wife is brought to the hospital at Minto House, and
the carrier and Rab remain there till the operation is over, and the
dead body of poor Ailie is carried home by her husband in his cart
over the miles of snowy country road, and the curtain falls black at
last over the death of the carrier too and the end of poor Rab himself!
Though the story, as the author vouches, “is in all essentials strictly
matter of fact,” who could have told it as Dr. John Brown did? Little
wonder that it has taken rank as his masterpiece, and that he was so
commonly spoken of while he was alive as “The author of Rab and
His Friends.” It is by that story, and by those other papers that may
be associated with it as also masterly in their different varieties, as all
equally “done to the quick,” that his name will live. Yes, many long
years hence, when all of us are gone, I can imagine that a little
volume will be in circulation, containing Rab and his Friends and
Our Dogs, and also let us say the Letter to Dr. Cairns, and Queen
Mary’s Child-Garden, and Jeems the Doorkeeper, and the paper
called Mystifications, and that called Pet Marjorie or Marjorie
Fleming, and that then readers now unborn, thrilled by that peculiar
touch which only things of heart and genius can give, will confess to
the charm that now fascinates us, and will think with interest of Dr.
John Brown of Edinburgh.
 LITERARY HISTORY OF EDINBURGH

A GENERAL REVIEW[51]

The Literary History of Edinburgh, in any special sense, may be

said to have begun in the reigns of the Scottish Kings James IV.
(1488–1513) and James V. (1513–1542.) There had been a good deal
of scattered literary activity in Scotland before,—all, of course, in
manuscript only,—in which Edinburgh had shared; but it was not till
those two reigns,—when Edinburgh had become distinctly the capital
of the Scottish Kingdom, and was in possession of a printing-press or
two,—it was not till then that Edinburgh could claim to be the central
seat of the Scottish Muses. What was there anywhere over the rest of
Scotland in the shape of new literary product that could then
compete with the novelties that came from that cluster of “makars”
and men of genius,—Dunbar, Gavin Douglas, and Sir David Lindsay
the three best remembered of them,—whose habitual residence was
in Edinburgh, and whose figures were to be seen daily in the
picturesque long slope of the High Street and the Canongate which
connects the ancient Castle with the venerable Holyrood?
From the Edinburgh of the two reigns mentioned we pass to the
Edinburgh of the Regencies for the infant and absent Queen Mary, of
Queen Mary’s own short resident reign, and of the beginnings of the
reign of James VI. Through this period, carrying us from 1542 to
about 1580, Edinburgh still maintained her metropolitan distinction
in literature, as in other things; though with the enormous difference
imported into literature, as into other things, by the Reformation
struggle and its consequences. Lindsay, the last of the bright poetic
triad of the two bygone reigns, survived far into the Reformation
struggle,—in which indeed he was a champion of the first mark and
importance on the Protestant side; and, though he died before the
conclusive Reformation enactment of the Scottish Estates in 1560, he
had lived long enough to know personally, and as it were to put his
hands on, those who were to be the foremost intellects of Scotland in
her new and Protestantised condition. When John Knox and George
Buchanan returned from their Continental exile and wanderings to
spend their veteran days in their native land,—Knox with his already
acquired reputation by English theological writings and pamphlets,
and Buchanan with the rarer European fame of superb Latinist and
scholar, poetarum sui sæculi facile princeps, as his foreign admirers
already universally applauded him,—where could they settle but in
Edinburgh? For thirteen years, accordingly, Knox was minister of
Edinburgh and her most powerful citizen, writing industriously still,
while he preached and directed Scottish politics; and it was in
Edinburgh, in 1572, that he died and was buried. Of Buchanan’s life
after his return to Scotland, portions were spent at St. Andrews or in
Stirling; but Edinburgh had most of him too. It was in Edinburgh
that he published his Baptistes, his De Jure Regni apud Scotos, and
others of his writings in verse or in prose; and it was in an Edinburgh
lodging that he died in 1582, after having sent to the press the last
proof-sheets of his Rerum Scoticarum Historia, or Latin History of
Scotland. Recollect such minor Edinburgh contemporaries of those
two, of literary repute of one kind or another, as Sir Richard
Maitland, Robert Pont, Thomas Craig, and the collector George
Bannatyne,—not forgetting that before 1580 Edinburgh had glimpses
of the new force that was at hand for all Scotland, literary as well as
ecclesiastical, in Andrew Melville,—and it will be seen that, though
the Reformation had changed notably the character of the
intellectual pursuits and interests of the Scottish capital, as of
Scotland generally, yet there had been no real interruption so far of
that literary lustre of the town which had begun with Dunbar at the
Court of James IV. In fact, the first eighty years of the sixteenth
century may be regarded (the pre-Reformation authorship and the
post-Reformation authorship taken together) as one definitely
marked age, and the earliest, in the literary history of Edinburgh. It
was an age of high credit in Scottish literary history all in all.
Scotland was then no whit inferior to contemporary England in
literary power and productiveness. On the contrary, as it is admitted
now by the historians of English Literature that in the long tract of
time between the death of Chaucer and the appearance of Spenser it
was in Scotland rather than in England that the real succession to
Chaucer was kept up in the British Islands, so it must be admitted
that it was in the last eighty years of that long period of comparative
gloom in England that the torch that had been kindled in Scotland
was passed there most nimbly and brilliantly from hand to hand.
From 1580 onwards there was a woeful change. “Let not your
Majesty doubt,” Napier of Merchiston ventured to say to James VI.,
while that King was still Sovereign of Scotland only, but after he had
shown his own literary ambition in his Essayes of a Prentise in the
Divine Art of Poesie and other Edinburgh publications, “let not your
Majesty doubt that there are within your realm, as well as in other
countries, godly and good ingines, versed and exercised in all
manner of honest science and godly discipline, who by your
Majesty’s instigation might yield forth works and fruits worthy of
memory, which otherwise, lacking some mighty Mæcenas to
encourage them, may perchance be buried with eternal silence.” The
augury, so far as it was one of hope, was not fulfilled. Through the
last forty-five years of the reign of James, and then through all the
rest of the seventeenth century, including the reign of Charles I., the
interregnum of the English Commonwealth and the Oliverian
Protectorate, the Restoration reigns of Charles II., and James II., and
the reign of William and Mary,—through all that long period, the
greatest and richest in the literary annals of England, the time when
she made herself the astonishment of the nations by her Elizabethan
splendour in Spenser, Bacon, Shakespeare, and their many
contemporaries, and then by the succession to these in the great
series of which Hobbes, Milton, Jeremy Taylor, Bunyan, Dryden, and
Locke were the chiefs,—what had Scotland to show in comparison?
In the first section of the period Napier of Merchiston himself and
Drummond of Hawthornden,—a pair well worthy of attention, and
both of them specially Edinburgh men; but after these only or mainly
a straggle of mediocrities, or of lower than mediocrities. A tradition,
it is true, in Arthur Johnston and others, of an excellent Scottish
Latinity in discipleship to Buchanan,—the more the pity in so far as
this prevented a free and brave exercise of the vernacular; the
apparition here and there, too, of a spirit of finer quality among the
ecclesiastics, such as Rutherford and Leighton, or of an individual
book of mark, such as Baillie’s Letters or Stair’s Institutes; but, for
the rest, within Scotland, and without tracking any continuation of
the old race of the Scoti extra Scotiam agentes, only such small
mercies as a Mure of Rowallan, a Semple of Beltrees, or a Cleland,
among the versifiers, or, in prose, a Hume of Godscroft, a
Spotswood, a Sir Thomas Urquhart, or a Sir George Mackenzie!
What was the cause of this poverty? The loss of the benefits of a
resident Scottish kingship, consequent on the removal of the Court to
England in 1603, may have had some effect. No chance after that of
Napier’s desired agency of a mighty royal Mæcenas in Holyrood for
stirring the Scottish “ingines.” A more certain cause, however, is to
be found in the agonising intensity with which, through the whole of
the century and a quarter from 1580 onwards, the soul and heart of
Scotland, in all classes of the community alike, were occupied with
the successive phases of the one vexed question of Presbytery-versus-
Episcopacy in Church government, and its theological and political
concomitants. It was in the nature of this controversy, agitated as it
was with such persevering, such life-or-death vehemence, in
Scotland, to strangle all the ordinary muses. Here, however, lies the
historical compensation. There are other interests in a nation, other
duties, than those of art and literature; and he would be but a
wretched Scotsman who, while hovering over the history of his
country in the seventeenth century and noting her deficiencies then
in literary respects in comparison with England, should forget that
this very century was the time of the most powerful action ever
exerted by Scotland in the general history of the British Islands, and
that, when the great British Revolution of that century was over, its
accounts balanced, and the residuum of indubitably successful and
useful result summed up, no little of that residuum was traceable to
Scotland’s obstinate perseverance so long in her own peculiar
politico-ecclesiastical controversy, and to what had been argued or
done in the course of it, on one side or the other, by such men as
Andrew Melville, Alexander Henderson, Argyle, Montrose,
Claverhouse, and Carstares. But it is on Scottish Literature that we
are now reporting, and for that the report must remain as has been
stated. From Dan to Beersheba, from Hawick to Thurso, all through
the Scottish century and a quarter under view, very few roses or
other flowers, and not much even of happy thistle-bloom!
A revival came at last. It came in the beginning of the eighteenth
century, just after the union of Scotland with England in the reign of
Queen Anne, when the literary succession to Dryden in England was
represented by such of the Queen Anne wits and their Georgian
recruits as Defoe, Matthew Prior, Swift, Congreve, Steele, Addison,
Gay, and Pope. It was then that, from a group of lingering Scottish
literary stagers of the antique type, such as Bishop Sage, Dr. Pitcairn,
Pennicuik, Fletcher of Saltoun, Wodrow, and Ruddiman, there
stepped forth the shrewd Edinburgh periwig-maker who was to be
for so many years the popular little Horace of Auld Reekie, not only
supplying the lieges with such songs and poems as they had not had
the like of for many a day, but actually shaking them again into some
sense of the importance of popular books and of a taste for lightsome
reading. Yes, it was Allan Ramsay,—the placid little man of the night-
cap that one sees in the white statue of him in Princes Street,—it was
he that was the real reviver of literature and of literary enthusiasm in
Scotland after their long abeyance. He was conscious of his mission:
—
“The chiels of London, Cam., and Ox.
Hae reared up great poetic stocks
Of Rapes, of Buckets, Sarks, and Locks,
While we neglect
To shaw their betters. This provokes
Me to reflect

On the learn’d days of Gawn Dunkell:

Our country then a tale could tell:
Europe had nane mair snack and snell
In verse or prose:
Our kings were poets too themsell,
Bauld and jocose.”

He combined, as we see here, the two passions of a patriotic and

antiquarian fondness for the native old literature of Scotland, the all
but forgotten old Scottish poetry of the sixteenth century, and an
eager interest in what his English contemporaries in the south, the
“chiels of London,”—to wit, Prior, Addison, Pope, Gay, and the rest,—
had recently done, or were still doing, for the maintenance of the
great literary traditions of England. How strong was his interest in
those “chiels of London,” how much he admired them, appears not
only from their influence upon him in his own special art of a
resuscitated Scottish poetry in an eclectic modification of the old
vernacular, but also in the dedication of so much of his later life to
the commercial enterprise of an Edinburgh circulating library for the
supply of his fellow-citizens with all recent or current English books,
and in his less successful enterprise for the introduction of the
English drama by the establishment of a regular Edinburgh theatre.
In short, before Allan Ramsay’s death in 1758, what with his own
example and exertions, what from the stimulus upon his countrymen
independently of the new sense, more and more consciously felt
since the Union, of an acquired partnership with England in all that
great inheritance in the English speech which had till then belonged
especially to England, and in the common responsibilities of such
partnership thenceforward, Scotland was visibly holding up her head
again. Before that date there had appeared, in Ramsay’s wake, some
of the other forerunners of that famous race of eighteenth-century
Scottish writers who, so far from giving cause for any continuance of
the imputation of the literary inferiority of Scotland to England, were
to command the respect of Europe by the vigour of their co-
operation and rivalry with their English coevals.
Without taking into account Lady Elizabeth Wardlaw, whose
noble poetic fragment of Hardyknute was made public by Ramsay,
and whose influence on the subsequent course of specially Scottish
literature by that fragment, and possibly by other unacknowledged
things of the same kind, remains yet to be adequately estimated, one
notes that among those juniors of Ramsay who had entered on the
career of literature after him and under his observation, but who had
died before him, were Robert Blair, James Thomson, and William
Hamilton of Bangour. David Malloch, once an Edinburgh protégé of
Ramsay’s, but a naturalised Londoner since 1723, and Anglicised into
Mallet, was about the oldest of Ramsay’s Scottish literary survivors,
and does not count for much. But, when Ramsay died, there were
already in existence, at ages varying from full maturity to mere
infancy, more than fifty other Scots who are memorable now, on one
ground or another, in the British Literary History of the eighteenth
century. Some of these, such as Armstrong, Smollett, Mickle, and
Macpherson, migrated to England, as Arbuthnot, Thomson, and
Mallet had done; others, such as Reid, Campbell, and Beattie, are
associated locally with Aberdeen, Glasgow, or some rural part of
Scotland; but by far the largest proportion, like Allan Ramsay
himself, had their homes in Edinburgh, or were essentially of
Edinburgh celebrity by all their belongings. Kames, David Hume,
Monboddo, Dr. Robert Henry, Dr. Hugh Blair, Dr. Thomas
Blacklock, Principal Robertson, John Home, Adam Smith, Dr. Adam
Ferguson, Lord Hailes, Hutton, Black, Falconer, Professor Robison,
James Boswell, George Chalmers, Henry Mackenzie, Professor
Playfair, Robert Fergusson, Dugald Stewart, and John Pinkerton:
these, with others whom their names will suggest, were the northern
lights of the Scottish capital through the half-century or more in
which Dr. Johnson wielded the literary dictatorship of London, and
he and Goldsmith, and, after they were gone, Burke and Gibbon,
were seen in the London streets. Greater and smaller together, were
they not a sufficient northern constellation? Do not we of modern
Edinburgh still remember them now with a peculiar pride, and visit,
out of curiosity, the houses in the Old Town squares or closes where
some of them had their dwellings? Do not traditions of them, and of
their physiognomies and habits, linger yet about the Lawnmarket,
the High Street, the Canongate, the Parliament House, and the site of
our University? Was it not the fact that in their days there were two
recognised and distinct centres or foci of literary production in Great
Britain: the great London on the banks of the Thames being one; but
the other 400 miles farther north, in the smaller city of heights and
hollows that stood ridged beside Arthur Seat on the banks of the
Forth? And so, not without a track of enduring radiance yet, vanishes
from our gaze what we may reckon as the third age of the Literary
History of Edinburgh.
A fourth was to follow, and in some respects a still greater. It
was in July 1786 that there was published the first, or Kilmarnock,
edition of the Poems of Robert Burns; and it was in the winter of that
same year that the ploughman-poet paid his memorable first visit to
Edinburgh. On one particular day in the course of that visit, as all
know, Burns encountered, in the house of Dr. Adam Ferguson, a
lame fair-haired youth, of fifteen years of age, upon whom, in the
midst of other company, his eyes were led, by a happy accident, to fix
themselves for a moment or two with some special interest. This was
young Walter Scott. In the same week, or thereabouts, it was that
another Edinburgh boy, two years younger than Scott, standing
somewhere in the High Street, and staring at a man whose unusual
appearance had struck him, was told by a bystander that he might
well look, for that man was Robert Burns. This was young Francis
Jeffrey. What a futurity for Edinburgh in the coming lives of those
two young natives of hers, both of whom had just seen the wondrous
man from Ayrshire! In 1802, when Burns had been dead for six
years, Scott, already the author of this or that, was collecting the
“Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border”; and in the end of the same year
appeared the first number of the Edinburgh Review, projected in
Jeffrey’s house in Buccleuch Place, and of which, after its third
number, Jeffrey was to be the sole editor. Pass thence to 1832, the
year of Scott’s death. How enormous the accession in those thirty
years to all that had been previously illustrious in the literary history
of Edinburgh! On the one hand, all the marvellous offspring of
Scott’s creative genius, the novels as well as the poems; on the other,
all Jeffrey’s brilliant and far-darting criticisms, with those of his
associate reviewers, from Horner, Brougham, and Sydney Smith, to
the juniors who succeeded them. In any retrospect of this kind,
however, criticism pales by the side of creation; and it is in the blaze
of the completed life of the greater of the two rising stars of 1802 that
the present Edinburgh now necessarily recollects and reimagines the
Edinburgh of those thirty following years.

II.

It is not for nothing that the very central and supreme object in
the architecture of our present Edinburgh is the monument to Sir
Walter Scott,—the finest monument, I think, that has yet been raised
anywhere on the earth to the memory of a man of letters. The
Edinburgh of the thirty years from 1802 to 1832 was, is, and will ever
be, the Edinburgh of Sir Walter Scott. All persons and things else
that were contained in the Edinburgh of those thirty years are
thought of now as having had their being and shelter under the
presidency of that one overarching personality. When these are
counted up, however, the array should be sufficiently impressive,
even were the covering arch removed. The later lives of Henry
Mackenzie, Dugald Stewart, and Playfair, and of the Alison of the
Essays on Taste; the lyric genius of the Baroness Nairne, and her
long unavowed songs; the rougher and more prolific muse of James
Hogg; Dr. M’Crie and his historical writings; all the early promise of
the scholarly and poetical Leyden; some of the earlier strains of
Campbell; Dr. Thomas Brown and his metaphysical teachings in
aberration from Dugald Stewart; Mrs. Brunton and her novels; Mrs.
Johnstone and her novels; Miss Ferrier and her novels; the too brief
career of the philologist Dr. Alexander Murray; much of the most
active career, scientific and literary, of Sir David Brewster; the
Scottish Record researches of Thomas Thomson, and the
contributions of Kirkpatrick Sharpe, and many of those of David
Laing, to Scottish history and Scottish literary antiquities; the
starting of Blackwood’s Magazine in 1817, and the outflashing in
that periodical of Wilson as its “Christopher North,” with his
coadjutor Lockhart; all the rush of fame that attended the “Noctes
Ambrosianæ” in that periodical, with the more quiet popularity of
such particular contributions to its pages as those of David Macbeth
Moir; the first intimations of the extraordinary erudition and the
philosophic power of Sir William Hamilton; the first years of the
Edinburgh section of the life of Dr. Chalmers; the first tentative
residences in Edinburgh, and ultimate settlement there, in
connection with Blackwood and other periodicals, of the strange
English De Quincey, driven thither by stress of livelihood after trial
of London and the Lakes; the somewhat belated outset, in obscure
Edinburgh lodgings, and then in a house in Comely Bank, of what
was to be the great career of Thomas Carlyle; the more precocious
literary assiduity of young Robert Chambers, with results of various
kinds already in print; such are some of the phenomena discernible
in the history of Edinburgh during those thirty years of Scott’s
continuous ascendency through which there ran the equally
continuous shaft of Jeffrey’s critical leadership.
Nor when Scott died was his influence at an end. Edinburgh
moved on, indeed, after his familiar figure had been lost to her, into
another tract of years, full of continued and still interesting literary
activity, in which, of all Scott’s survivors, who so fit to succeed him in
the presidency, who called to it with such acclamation, as the long-
known, long-admired, and still magnificent Christopher North? In
many respects, however, this period of Edinburgh’s continued
literary activity, from 1832 onwards, under the presidency of Wilson,
was really but a prolongation, a kind of afterglow, of the era of the
great Sir Walter.
Not absolutely so. In the Edinburgh from which Sir Walter had
vanished there were various intellectual developments, various
manifestations of literary power and tendency, as well as of social
energy, which Sir Walter could not have foreseen, which were even
alien to his genius, and which owed little or nothing to his example.
There were fifteen years more of the thunders and lightnings of the
great Chalmers; of real importance after a different fashion was the
cool rationality of George Combe, with his physiological and other
teachings; the little English De Quincey, hidden away in no one
knows how many Edinburgh domiciles in succession, and appearing
in the Edinburgh streets and suburbs only furtively and timorously
when he appeared at all, was sending forth more and more of his
wonderful essays and prose-phantasies; less of a recluse, but
somewhat of a recluse too, and a late burner of the lamp, Sir William
Hamilton was still pursuing those studies and speculations which
were to constitute him in the end the most momentous force since
Hume in the profounder philosophy of Great Britain; and, not to
multiply other cases, had there not come into Edinburgh the massive
Hugh Miller from Cromarty, his self-acquired English classicism
superinduced upon native Scandinavian strength, and powdered
with the dust of the Old Red Sandstone?
Not the less, parallel with all this, ran the transmitted influence
of Sir Walter Scott. What we may call the Scotticism of Scott,—that
special passion for all that appertained to the land of brown heath
and shaggy wood, that affection for Scottish themes and legends in
preference to all others, which he had impressed upon Scottish
Literature so strongly that its perpetuation threatens to become a
restriction and a narrowness, was the chief inspiration of many of
those Scottish writers who came after him, in Edinburgh or
elsewhere. One sees a good deal of this in Christopher North himself,
and also in Hugh Miller. It appears in more pronounced form in the
long-protracted devotion of the good David Laing to those labours of
Scottish antiquarianism which he had begun while Scott was alive
and under Scott’s auspices, and in the accession to the same field of
labour of such later scholars as Cosmo Innes. It appears in the
character of many of those writings which marked the advance of
Robert Chambers, after the days of his youthful attachment to Scott
personally, to his more mature and more independent celebrity. It
appears, moreover, in the nature of much of that publishing
enterprise of the two Chamberses jointly the commencement of
which by the starting of Chambers’s Edinburgh Journal in the very
year of Scott’s death is itself a memorable thing in the annals of
Edinburgh; and it is discernible in a good deal of the contemporary
publishing activity of other Edinburgh firms. Finally, to keep still to
individuals, do we not see it, though in contrasted guises, in the
literary lives, so closely in contact, of John Hill Burton and William
Edmonstoune Aytoun? If we should seek for a convenient stopping-
point at which to round off our recollections of the whole of that age
of the literary history of Edinburgh which includes both the era of
the living Scott and the described prolongation of that era, then,
unless we stop at the death of Wilson in 1854, may not the death of
Aytoun in 1865 be the point chosen? No more remarkable
representative than Aytoun to the last of what we have called the
afterglow from the spirit of Scott. Various as were his abilities, rich as
was his vein of humour, what was the dominant sentiment of all his
serious verse? What but that to which he has given expression in his
imagined soliloquy of the exiled and aging Prince Charlie?—
“Let me feel the breezes blowing
Fresh along the mountain side!
Let me see the purple heather,
Let me hear the thundering tide,
Be it hoarse as Corrievreckan
Spouting when the storm is high!
Give me back one hour of Scotland;
Let me see it ere I die.”

In our chronological review of the literary history of Edinburgh

to the point to which it has thus been brought, there has been, it will
have been observed, the intervention of at least one age of poverty in
what would else be a pretty continuous show of plenty. There are
among us some who tell us that we are now in an age of poverty
again, a season of the lean kine of Pharaoh’s dream. Ichabod, they
tell us, may be now written on the front of the Register House; and
Edinburgh is living on her past glories! As this complaint was raised
again and again in previous times to which its application is now a
matter of surprise, may we not hope that its recurrence in the
present is only a passing wave of that feeling, common to all times,
and not unbecoming or unuseful, which underestimates, or even
neglects, what is near and round about, in comparison with what is
old or far off? The question whether Edinburgh is now despicable
intellectually in comparison with her former self, like the larger
question, usually opened out from this smaller one, and pressed
along with it, whether Scotland at large is not intellectually poor in
comparison with her former self, is really a question of statistics. As a
certain range of time is requisite to form a sufficient basis for a fair
inventory, perhaps we ought to wait a little. When one remembers,
however, that among those who would have to be included in the
inventory, inasmuch as they dropped out from the society of
Edinburgh considerably after that year 1865 which has been
suggested as a separating point between the defunct past and the still
current, are not only such of the older and already-named ornaments
of Edinburgh as David Laing, Cosmo Innes, William and Robert
Chambers, and Hill Burton, but also such individualities of later
conspicuous mark as Alexander Smith, Alexander Russel, and Dr.
John Brown, then, perhaps, there might be some confidence that, if
one were to proceed to the more delicate business of comprising in
the list all that suit among the living, together with those of whom
there is any gleam “upon the forehead of the town to come,” the total
would exhibit an average not quite shameful. Perhaps, however, as
has been said, it is too soon yet to begin to count.
Those who believe in the literary decadence of Edinburgh
naturally find the cause to some extent in the increasing
centralisation of the commerce of British Literature universally in
London. They point to such facts as that the Edinburgh Review has
long ceased to be an Edinburgh periodical, that some Edinburgh
publishing firms have transferred their head-quarters to London,
and that other Edinburgh publishing firms are understood to be
meditating a similar removal. Now, in the first place, is there not
here some exaggeration of the facts? London, with its population of
four or five millions, is so vast a nation in itself that the fair
comparison in this matter should not be between London and
Edinburgh, but between London and the whole of Scotland; and, if it
were found that the amount of book-production in Edinburgh were
even one-twentieth of that of London, the scores between the two
places would then, in proportion to their bulks, be about exactly
equal. I cannot pretend to have used all the available means for the
computation; but, in view of some facts before me, I should be
surprised if it turned out that Edinburgh did not come up to her
proportional mark. Edinburgh possesses, at all events, a most
flourishing printing industry. The printing of Edinburgh is
celebrated all the world over; a very large proportion of the books
published in London are printed in Edinburgh. That is something;
but what of publishing business? From the Edinburgh Directory of
this year, I find that among the booksellers of the city there are 62
who are also publishers. As against these 62 publishing houses in
Edinburgh there ought, in the proportion of the bulks, to be about
1260 in London; but from the London Directory of last year I find
that the number of London publishing houses was but 373,—i.e. that
London, in proportion to its size, has only about one-third of the
publishing machinery of Edinburgh. The mere relative numbers,
however, do not suffice for the comparison; for may not the
proportionally fewer London houses have been doing a much larger
amount of business, and may not the publishing machinery of
Edinburgh have been lying comparatively idle? Well, I do not know;
but the recent publishing lists of our Edinburgh houses show no
signs of declining activity. The completed Ninth Edition of the great
Encyclopædia Britannica, for example, has been wholly an
Edinburgh enterprise, and a new edition of another Edinburgh
Cyclopædia is now running its course. Where Edinburgh falls most
obviously behind London at present is perhaps in the dimensions of
her journalism and her apparatus of periodical literature.
Blackwood’s Magazine and Chambers’s Edinburgh Journal exist
still; but other literary periodicals, once known in Edinburgh, are
extinct, and one can recollect the time when there were more
newspapers in Edinburgh than there are now. Those, however, were
the days of twice-a-week newspapers or once-a-week newspapers;
and in the present daily journalism of Edinburgh one has to observe
not only the unprecedented amount of energy and writing ability at
work for all the ordinary requirements of newspapers, but also (a
very noteworthy feature of Edinburgh journalism in particular) the
increasing extent to which, by frequent non-political articles and
continual accounts of current books, it is annexing to itself the
functions hitherto performed by magazines, reviews, and other
literary miscellanies. But, suppose that, all these appearances
notwithstanding, it should be made out that the publishing
machinery of Edinburgh is scantier and slacker than it was, there is
another consideration yet in reserve. The real measure of the present
or the future literary capabilities of Edinburgh, or of Scotland
generally, is not the extent of the publishing machinery which either
Edinburgh, or Scotland generally, still retains within herself, but the
amount and worth of the actual or potential authorship, the literary
brain and ability of all kinds, that may be still resident within the
bounds of Edinburgh or of Scotland, wheresoever the products are
published. Those who are so fond of upbraiding the present
Edinburgh more especially with the former literary distinction of
Edinburgh in the latter half of the eighteenth century,—the days of
Hume, Adam Smith, Robertson, and others,—seem to be ignorant of
a most important fact. The publishing machinery of Edinburgh in
those days was very poor; and the chief books of those Edinburgh
celebrities were published in London. That there came a change in
this respect was owing mainly, or wholly, to one man. His name was
Archibald Constable. Of this man, the Napoleon of the British
publishing trade of his time, and of such particular facts in his
publishing career as his bold association of himself with the
Edinburgh Review from its very outset, and his life-long connection
with Scott, all have some knowledge from tradition. But hear Lord
Cockburn’s succinct account of him in general. “Constable,” says
Lord Cockburn, “began as a lad in Hill’s shop, and had hardly set up
for himself when he reached the summit of his business. He rushed
out, and took possession of the open field, as if he had been aware
from the first of the existence of the latent spirits which a skilful
conjurer might call from the depths of the population to the service
of literature. Abandoning the old timid and grudging system, he
stood out as the general patron and payer of all promising
publications, and confounded not merely his rivals in trade, but his
very authors, by his unheard-of prices. Ten, even twenty, guineas a
sheet for a review, £2000 or £3000 for a single poem, and £1000
each for two philosophical dissertations, drew authors from dens
where they would otherwise have starved, and made Edinburgh a
literary mart, famous with strangers, and the pride of its own
citizens.” These words of Lord Cockburn’s are too high-flown, in so
far as they might beget wrong conceptions of what was or is possible.
But, recollecting what Constable did,—recollecting that it was mainly
his example and success that called into being those other Edinburgh
publishing firms, contemporary with his own or subsequent, which
have maintained till now the place won by him for Edinburgh in the
commerce of British literature,—recollecting also how largely he led
the way in that enormous change in the whole system of the British
book trade, now almost consummated, which has liberated
publishers from the good old necessity of waiting for the authors that
might come to them, one by one, with already-prepared manuscripts
under their arm, the fruit of their careful private labours on self-
chosen subjects, and has constituted publishers themselves, to a
great extent, the real generators and regulators of literature,
projecting serials, manuals, sets of schoolbooks, and whatever else
they see to be in demand, and employing literary labour preferably in
the service of these enterprises of their own,—recollecting all this,
may we not speculate on what might be the consequences in the
present Edinburgh of the appearance of another Archibald
Constable? The appurtenances are all ready. One has heard
complaints lately of the dearth in Edinburgh of those materials in the
shape of collections of books which would be requisite for the future
sufficiency of the city as a manufactory of such kinds of literature as
admit of being manufactured. That is a sheer hallucination. Next to
London, and perhaps to Oxford, Edinburgh has the largest provision
of books of any city in the British Empire. There are at this moment
800,000 volumes,—say close on a million,—on the shelves of the
various public or corporate libraries. Much remains to be done
towards making all this wealth of books in Edinburgh as available as
it might be; and there ought to be no rest among us till that
particular advance is made towards an ideal state of things which
shall consist in the conversion of the present noble library of the
Faculty of Advocates into the nucleus of a great National Library for
all Scotland. But, even as things are, why be indolent, why not utilise
our implements? Doubt not that in the present Edinburgh and in the
present Scotland, as in other parts of Her Majesty’s dominions, there
are, as Napier of Merchiston phrased it, “good ingines, versed and
exercised in all manner of honest science,” who, if they were to bestir
themselves, and especially if there were another Archibald Constable
in the midst of them, would find plenty of excellent employment
without needing, unless they chose, to change the territory of their
abode!

THE END

Printed by R. & R. Clark, Edinburgh.

1. From The Scotsman of 18th, 19th, and 21st August 1886.

2. Written, and in part delivered, as an Introductory Lecture to the Class of
English Literature in the University of Edinburgh in the Session 1867–8.
3. A scrap from unpublished MSS.
4. From The Scotsman of 29th December 1890.
5. Written in 1883, in the form of a Lecture.
6. Written in 1883, as a lecture for the Class of English Literature in the
Edinburgh Association for the University Education of Women.
7. Reprinted, with some modifications, from the Westminster Review for
Oct.–Dec. 1856; where it appeared, with the title “Edinburgh Fifty Years Ago,” in
the form of an article on Lord Cockburn’s “Memorials of Edinburgh,” then just
published.
8. Opening Address to Session 1890–1 of The Philosophical Institution of
Edinburgh.
9. From Macmillan’s Magazine for November and December 1881 and
January 1882.
10. Another incident which he told me of his first boyish saunterings about
Edinburgh is more trivial in itself, but of some interest as showing his observant
habits and sense of humour at that early age:—For some purpose or other, he was
going down Leith Walk, the long street of houses, stone-yards, and gaps of vacant
space, which leads from Edinburgh to its sea-port of Leith. In front of him, and
also walking towards Leith, was a solid, quiet-looking countryman. They had not
gone far from Edinburgh when there advanced to them from the opposite direction
a sailor, so drunk that he needed the whole breadth of the footpath to himself.
Taking some umbrage at the countryman, the sailor came to a stop, and addressed
him suddenly, “Go to H——,” looking him full in the face. “’Od, man, I’m gaun to
Leith,” said the countryman, as if merely pleading a previous engagement, and
walked on, Carlyle following him and evading the sailor.
11. Quoted by Mr. Froude in his article, “The Early Life of Thomas Carlyle,” in
the Nineteenth Century for July 1881.
 12. Quoted by Mr. Froude, ut supra.
13. Printed in an appendix to Mr. Moncure D. Conway’s Memoir of Carlyle
(1881), with other fragments of letters which had been copied from the originals by
Mr. Alexander Ireland of Manchester, and which Mr. Ireland put at Mr. Conway’s
disposal. The date of this fragment is “August 1814”; and, as it is evidently a reply
to Murray’s letter of “July 27,” I have ventured to dissent from Mr. Froude’s
conjectural addition of “1816?” to the dating of that letter.
14. The first secession from the National Presbyterian Church of Scotland, as
established at the Revolution, was in 1733, when differences on account of matters
of administration, rather than any difference of theological doctrine, led to the
foundation by Ebenezer Erskine of the dissenting communion called The Associate
Presbytery or Secession Church. In 1747 this communion split itself, on the
question of the obligation of the members to take a certain civil oath, called The
Burgher’s Oath, into two portions, calling themselves respectively the Associate or
Burgher Synod and the General Associate or Anti-Burgher Synod. The former in
1799 sent off a detachment from itself called the Original Burgher Synod or Old
Light Burghers, the main body remaining as the Associate Burgher Synod; and it
was to the second that Carlyle’s parents belonged, their pastor in Ecclefechan being
that Rev. Mr. Johnston to whose memory Carlyle has paid such a tribute of respect,
and whose grave is now to be seen in Ecclefechan churchyard, near Carlyle’s own.
15. This is not the first passage at arms on record between a Carlyle and an
Irving. As far back as the sixteenth century, when Irvings and Carlyles were even
more numerous in the West Border than they are at present, and are heard of, with
Maxwells, Bells, Johnstons, and other clans, as keeping those parts in continual
turmoil with their feuds, raids, and depredations, it would happen sometimes that
a Carlyle jostled with an Irving. Thus, in the Register of the Privy Council of
Scotland, under date Aug. 28, 1578, we have the statement from an Alexander
Carlyle that there had been a controversy “betwix him and Johnne Irvin, callit the
Windie Duke.” What the controversy was does not appear; but both parties had
been apprehended by Lord Maxwell, then Warden of the West Marches, and
lodged in the “pledge-chalmer,” or prison, of Dumfries; and Carlyle’s complaint is
that, while the said John Irving had been released on bail, no such favour has been
shown to him, but he has been kept in irons for twenty-two weeks. This Alexander
Carlyle seems to be the same person as a “Red Alexander Carlyle of Eglisfechan”
heard of afterwards in the same Record, under date Feb. 22, 1581–2, as concerned
in “some attemptatis and slauchter” committed in the West March, and of which
the Privy Council were taking cognisance. On this occasion he is not in controversy
with an Irving, but has “Edward Irving of Boneschaw,” and his son “Christie Irving
of the Coif,” among his fellow-culprits. Notices of the Dumfriesshire Carlyles and
Irvings, separately or in company, are frequent in the Register through the reign of
James VI.
16. I have been informed, however, that Leslie must have misconceived Carlyle
when he took the solution as absolutely Carlyle’s own. It is to be found, I am told,
in an old Scottish book of geometry.
17. A letter of Carlyle’s among those contributed by Mr. Alexander Ireland to
Mr. Conway’s Memoir proves that the momentous reading of Gibbon was before
Feb. 20, 1818; and in a subsequent letter in the same collection, of date “July
1818,” he informs his correspondent, “I have quitted all thoughts of the Church, for
many reasons, which it would be tedious, perhaps [word not legible], to
enumerate.” This piece of information is bedded, however, in some curious
remarks on the difficulties of those “chosen souls” who take up opinions different
from those of the age they live in, or of the persons with whom they associate. See
the letter in Mr. Conway’s volume, pp. 168–170.
18. Quoted in Mr. Froude’s article, “The Early Life of Carlyle,” in the
Nineteenth Century for July 1881.
19. Mrs. Oliphant’s Life of Irving (1862), i. 90, 91.
20. My impression now is that it was this autumn of 1819 in his father’s house
that Carlyle had in his mind when he talked to me once of the remembered
pleasures of certain early mornings in the Dumfriesshire hill-country. The chief
was when, after a saunter out of doors among the sights and sounds of newly
awakened nature, he would return to the fragrant tea that was ready for him at
home. No cups of tea he had ever tasted in his life seemed so fragrant and so
delicious as those his mother had ready for him after his walks in those old
Dumfriesshire mornings.
21. But for the phrase “Hume’s Lectures once done with, I flung the thing away
for ever,” quoted by Mr. Froude as from “a note somewhere,” I should, on the
evidence of handwriting, etc., have decided unhesitatingly for the second and more
extensive of the two hypotheses.—The attendance on the Chemistry Class, which
would become a fact if that hypothesis were correct, would be of some independent
interest. With Carlyle’s turn for science at that time, it was not unlikely. I may add
that, from talks with him, I have an impression that, some time or other, he must
have attended Professor Jameson’s class of Natural History. He had certainly
heard Jameson lecture pretty frequently; for he described Jameson’s lecturing
humorously and to the life, the favourite topic of his recollection being Jameson’s
discourse on the order Glires in the Linnæan Zoology. Though I have looked over
the Matriculation Lists and also the preserved class-lists pretty carefully from 1809
to 1824, it is just possible that Carlyle’s name in one of Jameson’s class-lists within
that range of time may have escaped me. The only other Professor, not already
mentioned in the text, that I remember to have heard him talk of was Dr. Andrew
Brown, Professor of Rhetoric and Belles Lettres; but him he knew, I think, only by
occasional dropping in at his lectures.
22. Carlyle to a correspondent, in one of Mr. Ireland’s copies of letters:
Conway, p. 178.
23. Ditto, ibid. p. 180.