Arthur Morgan Journal Drawings Novels & Stories

"Tea. You'll need it." They settled in the sitting room adjacent to the bedroom, keeping their voices low so as not to wake Landon. "I've been working on the magical authentication all night," Morgana said without preamble. "The journal, the photographs, the letters—trying to find concrete proof of forgery." "And?" Morgana's expression was troubled. "The journal is genuine. That's the good news. Kieran's own magical signature is all over it, embedded in the ink, the paper, everything. He wrote those entries himself. There's no question."

However, it is clear that from the days of yore, these two kinds have always come up with one sinister plot or another. I do not know how Arthur acquired this book but this is a personal book that I am sure was not given out willingly. In actual fact, this book is written like a journal. In it, different projects where the two kinds sort to work with each other, are recorded. I suck in my breath and adjust my posture.

Maybe the mark was recent—something adopted in the last few months that had nothing to do with pack history. I reached for the seventh journal and it slipped from my grasp. The book hit the floor with a dull thump, pages splaying open. I bent to retrieve it—and froze. The page it had opened to showed a hand-drawn sketch. Rough but unmistakable. Three crossed lines. Central point. Radiating lines. The exact brand I'd found on the rogues tonight. My heart kicked against my ribs. I lifted the journal carefully, bringing it close to the lamp. Theron's handwriting filled the margins around the sketch:

Morgan pressed the intercom and ordered in a calm voice, "Assistant Hans, come in." Hans Arco is Morgan's assistant, who is about the same age as Morgan, wearing a pair of gold-rimmed glasses, with a shrewd and capable face. "Mr. Blackstorm, what are your orders?" After following Morgan for many years, Hans naturally understood his boss' temper. The moment he entered the door, he knew that his boss was unhappy. Morgan pushed the newspapers and magazines on the table, "These newspapers are not run well, they are not positive enough, they are harmful to society... buy all of them!"

The chair squeaked as he lowered himself into it and considered Tom’s words. There was an almost fanatical hatred of vampires in his eyes. He shuddered. It reminded him of the way the people of Brown Valley would look at him, so sure that he would murder and destroy at the slightest provocation. Was there a chance that there was something else behind the war? He started looking through the journals Arthur I left behind. In one of them, he found a folded map and frowned. It was different than the map that was on the wall, maybe an extension of the other side. He pinned it up beside the map and considered it.

“They’re beautiful. Imagine the stories they could tell if they could talk.” Arthur said, "I bet they wouldn’t tell as good a story as Gina Gentlehammer.” I laughed. Mia laugh-snorted. “Daddy, you’re being silly. I didn’t know you could be silly.” “I can be silly,” Arthur said, but something grabbed his attention, and he was distracted. “Let’s go in.” Arthur had found a small painting, barely bigger than my palm. It was a mother and daughter looking at a mama and baby swan. “I’ll take it,” Arthur told the gallery clerk in Italian. He looked at me and then at Mia. “So we can remember this trip.”

Filed it in the category of things that were true and mattered and needed to be remembered when the part of me that was terrified started crowding out the part that was thinking. --- Morgana brought everything she had on Thaddeus. Three visits over the first week, each time with more — older texts, fragments from sources she was careful not to name, the accumulated record of three hundred years of someone who moved through history quietly enough to avoid the official accounts and appeared only in the margins. The margins, it turned out, were extensive.

The entire group went quiet as he approached. Morgan stopped in front of Amy, his body language unyielding. “Give me the diary.” Amy tried to pull it back, but Morgan was faster. He took it from her, his hand tight and sure. She glared at him, but he just stared her down until she stepped back. He turned and looked at Flint. For a second, nobody spoke. Morgan’s face was calm, but his eyes were cold. Flint glared at Morgan. “What are you doing?” he asked.

Has he been blind to the pain he caused? Arthur’s thoughts are chaotic, one moment consumed by rage, the next by guilt. He doesn’t want to admit it, but Jeremy’s words make him feel like he’s staring into a mirror—and he doesn’t like what he sees. He gets up, pacing the room. His eyes land on the scattered remnants of Madin’s belongings: a forgotten scarf on the bed, a worn notebook tucked under a pillow. Arthur grabs the notebook, opening it with trembling fingers. Inside are sketches and notes—small, fleeting pieces of Madin’s thoughts. Some pages hold quick drawings of the palace gardens, others are covered in fragments of poetry. But one page catches Arthur’s eye.

And the nursing home documents hadn't been signed by him either. I had spent three nights practicing that tremor. I had studied his old blueprints, mimicking the way his hand slipped on the curves of the 'A' and the way he dragged the 'r'. To a casual observer, it was the signature of a man losing his grip on the physical world. To me, it was a masterpiece of forgery. "I don't remember signing anything, Elias," Arthur said, his voice gaining a sudden, desperate strength. He stood up, the journal falling to the floor with a dull thud. "I’m not crazy. My mind is clear. I remember the weather this morning, I remember the birds—"