Arthur Morgan Journal Sketches Novels & Stories

It wasn’t much of a disguise. Was he trying to break away from his past… or simply blur its edges enough to make it harder to follow? In the third volume, I found something. Robert John Morgan. Born 24th September 1980. Liverpool University Hospital. Mother: Bridget Elsie Morgan, née Aherne. Father: Leonard Albert Edward Morgan. Merchant seaman. I stared at the entry for a long moment. I still couldn’t be certain. But the pieces were beginning to align. The probability was shifting in my favour.

They built a life that does not require correcting the tools of a life that needed one. I close the notebook. “What are you making?” I say. “Something from a recipe my father wrote in the margin of a book Arthur found in box four. “Not scrambled eggs. More ambitious.” “Gerald was writing recipes in book margins,” I say. “He was writing everything everywhere,” Samuel says. “Arthur says box four is mostly financial notes, but the margins of the books inside it contain recipes, observations about architecture, three pages of thoughts about what the Thomas family should have done differently, and what appears to be the beginning of a short story.”

I decide to keep the secret passage secret for now, "There's nothing in the guest side. I have to get into the loft." Morgan cuts me off, "He's back. I'll stop by tonight." Skeet is his usual self at dinner. All chatty and nice. Now I know why he is so successful, he's a chameleon, changing his color to suit his environment. Morgan is not as good. Her conversation is strained; her husband is leering at her. She's hitting the wine hard tonight. I've had enough, "Thank you for a lovely meal but I have to go back to my job search."

He suggested, winking at her. “To eat, too,” Morgana shrugged, “to later.” Arthur pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and made the appropriate calls. They continued to talk, Arthur telling her a little about his roots, that his grandfather was Scottish, and that both he and his father had died in a construction accident when he was only nine years old. From then on, he was left alone with his mother. Morgana was happy to get to know this more human side of him. He didn't seem like a shallow person. Maybe that was what made her feel comfortable. She needn't look like something she wasn't.

“So, wait, you’re staying with Aris?” “Yeah,” I murmur, trying to keep my voice low even though I might be the first person to take an interest in this section of the archives in like a thousand years. I balance the heavy books, standing on my toes to peer over the shorter shelves toward the lamplight that seems like it’s leagues away. “It wasn’t my decision.” “Tell me again about this Morgan chick. She sounds awful.” “She’s… gorgeous. Tall and lean, you know, like the models in your fashion magazines.”

I want to be the first person you see when that happens. Me : Why? Reece : I'm your mate. It'll be great feeling your wolf for the first time. I want to experience it with you. Me : That's not a good idea. Reece : Oh but it is, little wolf. Come on, say yes. Me : No Reece : You're hurting me Morgana. Me : I have a boyfriend. Reece : I don't acknowledge that fact. Talk about being stubborn. I'm going to get my wolf senses for the first time and I don't think it's a good idea to be around him when that happens.

Three Month Ago "Charlotte, are you even listening to me?" Arthur Morgan sat in the interior of his sleek, all-black Range Rover, dressed in a tailored suit that barely concealed the sharp edges of his temper. Beside him was his daughter, Charlotte, a 24-year-old dressed casually in a hoodie and joggers. They were on their way back to the Morgan estate after what Arthur considered a long, frustrating day. For the past fifteen minutes, Arthur had been talking—no, lecturing—Charlotte about the precarious position their family was in. But Charlotte was barely paying attention, her eyes glued to her phone, scrolling through pictures of celebrities at the latest Met Gala.

"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." Relief flooded through Aria. "That's huge. They can't claim it's forged if…" "But the photographs and letters are more complicated." Morgana interrupted gently. "Whoever created them knew what they were doing. The forgeries are sophisticated enough that my tests can't definitively prove manipulation. I can point to inconsistencies, raise questions, but I can't give the Council absolute proof." Aria's relief curdled into frustration. "So we have one solid piece of evidence and a bunch of maybes?"

’ His voice trailed off in anguish, ‘No brother, we had nothing, and you know it but won’t accept it. We could never beat Arthur, he was/is England's greatest King and he always will be. He is at peace now, sleeping because he has earned his rest but when he is needed he will return and save this green and pleasant land he loved so much. Killing the Hybrid will not change that, mating her will bring you nothing, she is not yours to mate with.’ Morgana stopped in front of him and lifted her hand taking the silver knife and placing it beside Aurora then she took Mordred's hands in hers,

“It started badly, and just became worse. The pack offered me a scholarship to an art school in Rideten, and I took it. Whilst I was in Rideten, I met a witch coven, and being apart from the Triquetra… I realized that it was better for me to stay apart.” “But you returned, now?” He was beginning to map in his mind the path of Morgana the teenager from Havermouth to Rideten, breaking her burgeoning relationship with the Triquetra at the same time, and then from Rideten to Kabramatta, probably as it was the location of the publisher. He wasn’t sure why after, if he had interpreted her comment about celibacy correctly, five years, she had returned to Havermouth with apparently fluid plans about