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hotel at Dolor-on-the-Downs, was indeed real, live, and, well, a mermaid, or another carnivalesque deception. Shockingly, the creature seems not to be a hoax. Mr. B observed the creature in a freshwater tank labeled “Real English Mermaid” and there behind glass she floated, shockingly naked and ill-tempered. She makes rude gestures with thin, greenish webbed fingers at all those who pay sixpence to have the curtain lifted so they might observe her, and floats about, or sometimes sits cross-legged on a large rock inside her tank, or reads whatever book is set on a stand just outside her tank, ringing a bell whenever she wishes the page turned (NB: at the time this reporter saw her, she was reading Rafael Sabatini’s recently-published Scaramouche ). When asked where this marvel was found, the proprietress, the recently-married Lady Cirrina Calipash ( née Prideaux) claimed her husband caught her on a fishing trip, whereupon she begged to be educated and allowed to socialize with the better element as much as she could. That the Lord Calipash began to tear up at the recollection bespeaks the love and attention given to this freak of nature by her caretakers. For our readership, the author wishes to note that those looking for a tranquil, relaxed seaside holidaying venue could go further and fare fouler than The Marine Vivarium: Very few screaming children or even chit-chatting adults could be found, the entire hotel was quiet, almost silent, and all patrons, when asked, said they had the loveliest time at the Vivarium, and would live there permanently if given the choice.

The Hour of the Tortoise
     
     
    4 April 1887, early morning. Traveling.
     
    I sat alone in my train-carriage watching the beech-copses and white sheep and mist-wreathed fields flashing by. I am sure this countryside could be anywhere in England, but these were the trees and fields of Devon, my home county! And I had not seen them from the time I was sent away to learn what I could at Miss Coote’s Academy for Young Women of Breeding and Promise.
    More than a decade has passed, but the native beauty of this place remains ever-first in my heart. How could it not be but so? My happiest days were spent in Devonshire, when I was but a lass running hither and yon, and always by the side of my cousin Laurent. Two years my junior, he had been my constant childhood companion—but what of now? What sort of man has he grown into?
    ‘ Twas a kiss that separated us, a kiss seen by his mother, Lady Fanchone. That woman, whom some would call great, mistook our embrace for the blossoming of love rather than the affection shared by near-siblings, and would brook no explanations. Laurent became but a memory, and Devon, too—until now! For I am coming home …
     
    ***
     
    Yes, that should do nicely, I think, for the introduction. A heroine at the end of her pupal stage, all grown up and ready to break through childhood’s chrysalis.
    Christ above, save me from choking upon my own vomit.
    I must find a way to add some spice directly lest I bore myself into an early grave, to say nothing of losing us the whole of our readership. Perhaps she (need name, floral in nature: Violet? Camilla? Camilla is nice) shall lose her maidenhead on the train. But to whom: the conductor? A handsome fellow-traveler? I must think on it.
    No, I should delay the jimmying open of Love’s crimson gate slightly longer. She could be introduced to the art of prick-sucking by a gallant stranger … but then he leaves her unsatisfied?
    Better better, and yet! While it’s true my editrix has never once given me poor counsel regarding my pornographies, I find Gothic fiction so very tiresome. I really cannot account for its popularity, but I am sure that is the reason Susan is so beside herself with excitement over this project. “Dearest Chelone, you shall write me Jane Eyre —but with lots and lots of fucking! It shall be our new serial and make us ever so much money!” Not exactly the