This story was certainly hard to work with, since we do not know much of Theresa, but I hope that I had made her justice and let people see where she comes from. This is dedicated to all those girls who are told that they talk too much or that they can’t do something: they’re wrong and you’re amazing. There is somebody who wants to hear what you say and who sees you and loves you for what you are. Never give up on yourself and know that you’re loved.
English is not my first language, so please forgive any typos/grammar mistakes
I’m making more of these with other characters like Harry, Edmund, and even Holloway. If you want to read the backstories of other characters like our Lady Grandmother or Roselyn Sinclaire, click here!
Summary: We see how Miss Sutton lived the events that entailed in the series
Word Count: 5.1k
Category: Fluff, angst and everything in between
Pairing: Theresa Sutton x Harry Foredale, Theresa Sutton & Edmund Marlcaster
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Discussion of death and grief, misogyny of the era and spoilers from the main series The Cursed Heiress. Read under your own discretion.
Book: Desire and Decorum
December, 1801
“And remember, Little Tess, don’t talk until you’re required to, and remember to breathe when you do!” Her mother advised her.
“And to be a good woman of God,” her father added.
Theresa Sutton nodded, wanting nothing more than to please her parents. Despite them being different themselves: her father being of white skin and a minor priest from Moorfield and her mother being brown-skinned and the daughter of a former slave, she wouldn’t notice such differences until she started blossoming into a woman. Tonight, she’d be introduced to the Earl of Edgewater, the son of the scary old man. He seemed kinder and actually interested into the ongoings of their modest house. Or at least he was good at pretending.
With him, his son who was her age and the eldest, of blonde hair and pretty blue eyes, greeted one another and sat in the dinner table as the younglings were in a different table, commenting the meal “I hope you like the potatoes! They aren’t the best, but our cook made it with love!”
The eldest, Edmund, overwhelmed by so much chatter, simply nodded as Harry assured her, they were just fine. She liked Harry. He was funny and seemed to like her enough. She was aware that she was but seven years-old, but she always dreamt of finding a good man and marrying him. Not like her mother, who seemed always so quiet and unhappy in her marriage.
She liked talking. It helped her pour out her heart and made her feel like this house wasn’t much of a prison. And everyone looked so gloomy, and the outside felt so colourful! Soon, as they seemed to start talking politics, dismissed the children to their assigned room, where Edmund brooded as she and Harry played Truth or Dare.
“Alright, my turn! Truth or dare, Theresa?”
“Truth!”
He smiled “Can I call you Tessa?”
“Oh!” She replied. Her mother and father called her Tess, and her eldest brother called her Sissie, but no-one called her Tessa “I mean, why not!”
“Alright, Tessa, I dare you to…” he whispered in her ear and she looked at him “What? It’ll help!”
“Alright,” she shrugged and went over Edmund. Since he was rather tall, she tapped on his leg “I think that your hair looks well, and nobody here thinks that you’re a dumb trollop, whatever that means.”
His eyebrows shoot up “Oh!” He looked over his brother and smiled “Thank you. That was... very kind.”
She shyly went back to Harry’s side and she whispered “Is your mother so mean to him? He seems nice!”
“I’m afraid so. I think she means well, but does it the wrong way. Boys like to be complimented as well; you know.”
“You’re very wise, and you’re younger than I am!”
May, 1810
Theresa Sutton was rendered speechless from the first time in a while. She gaped at her mother for what it felt like centuries “Cat finally got your tongue, girl?” Her father rushed.
“No, no! I’m just… he’s so… much older.”
Her father waved his hand “Four years is nothing. I’m twelve years older than your mother and we get along just fine, don’t we, Jocasta?”
Her mother faked a smile “Indeed, dear. My point is, he is handsome, wealthy, his mother’s titled and he will be kind to you. Not everyone has that privilege, dear.”
“Besides, a tattletale like you can’t do better. He doesn’t like speaking and you do. The two of you will reach an agreement, that’s for sure.”
“But… I’m in love with Viscount Harry!”
“He is betrothed to his neighbour, Annabelle Parsons. For a few months now. I’m afraid that asking the earl to switch brides would be highly improper, and a viscount is too much for you, anyways. It’s either Mr. Marlcaster or maidenhood.”
Theresa balled her fists and sobbed “I hate you! You’re a vile man, father!”
“Ungrateful brat—,” He got up, ready to smack her.
Her mother was quicker and shushed him “It’s but a tantrum! She’ll see your way, leave her to me, Jerry!”
“Hmm. She better. No other man in his right mind will come knock for her hand again.”
As she rushed upstairs, sobbing uncontrollably, she tried not to slam the door as she threw herself into bed and continued the sobbing and despair into sadness.
She didn’t notice her mother coming in and caressing her back, a sympathetic look in her face, and observing her with empathetic eyes. When she looked up, between sobs and irregular breathing and buggers of crying, she asked “Why, Mama? Why are you agreeing on this?”
“When one is a woman, and is not of white colour, we have little saying in what we are. But times are changing, my dear. At least none of us practically belong to your father as property. I will tell you something, little dove: sometimes, the only power we withhold is the one over men. What you did there was a mistake: never tempt a white man’s rage. Instead, lure him with daughterly affection. Men mellow quickly with hugs, kisses and puppy eyes. They are weaker than any man! Simple, and sometimes quite naïve about us.”
“What would you have me do?” She asked, her voice hoarse.
“Men like their women innocent and clueless. In their eyes, be that, but the moment the door close… play your cards carefully.”
“Like Papa and James when they play poker?”
Her mother smiled, pinching her nose “Exactly, my dear. The world is our poker, and we are cards. Depending on the situation, we change alliances to survive. Sometimes you’ll be ace, sometimes you’ll be spades. Besides, Harry is even younger, and so is Annabelle. I know the girl. In normal circumstances, she wouldn’t even bat an eye even if Harry was bare before her.”
“Mother!”
“It’s true, my love. Annie is quite indifferent to men, and prefers to be among us. Let us visit her and discuss your respective engagements.”
“Do you… want me to find out why she accepted the betrothal?”
Jocasta smiled and kissed her head “My smart girl. Now, prepare yourself and give me your best puppy pout. You will get on your knees and beg for his forgiveness.”
“And then?”
“…You’ll plot your revenge by scoring your beloved viscount. Rome wasn’t conquered in one day. But if you’re smart and know which card become, soon he’ll be giving you over to the heir to an earldom.”
As she got downstairs, her father was reading the newspaper, muttering to himself. When he noticed his daughter’s presence, he frowned “What do you want, Tess?”
She got on her knees with a guilty look and grabbed his pantaloons “Father… forgive me. I have disrespected you and was a very, very ungrateful daughter. I should’ve known my place, and I’d be pleased to become Mrs. Marlcaster.”
Her father raised an eyebrow and she rested her head on his lap “It won’t happen again. You shall find me your best, most ardently devoted and loving daughter. Please, Papa…” She looked at him like she was a puppy and he just kicked her. His demeanour mellowed.
“Very well. I forgive you. You are young and naïve, but later you’ll thank me.”
She smiled at him and kissed his hand, and he beckoned her to go back to her room. Now that she crossed her father off her to-do list, there was something else to do: talk to Miss Annabelle Parsons. Her next stop tomorrow would be Hazelvale Manor.
“Miss Sutton! Be welcome!” Annabelle smiled.
Theresa started a long ramble about what a pretty decoration she owned and how Felicity’s house looked similar, hoping that she’d get bored easily. Annabelle was certainly good at pretending to listen, but she could read boredom well enough. She talked more of the gossip she had heard, until Annabelle finally snapped, in her own polite way.
“I’d like to congratulate you on your betrothal to Eddie.”
“Ooh, thank you!” She made sure to squeal and conspirationally whisper “And soon you’ll score the youngest for yourself! Exciting, isn’t it?!” She batted her eyes, and Annabelle looked uncomfortable. Disgusted by the idea, even. But that mask was off for a few seconds.
“I look forward… to unite our houses.”
“Great! We shall be sisters, you and I!” She took her hands and squeezed them as hard as she could.
If Mama is right, it shouldn’t be difficult to rip my Harry from you.
Annabelle smiled “Wouldn’t that be simply wonderful?”
Theresa couldn’t help a giggle, and thank God that, in her eyes, she was just being childish about it. But deep inside, she was hiding her machinations to take Harry from her.
A beautiful maid of rich blonde hair came in, serving the tea, and Annabelle gave her a pair of curious eyes “Whoa! That’s such a pretty hair!”
She smiled wistfully “I know.”
Theresa looked at her, her mask falling off just for a few nanoseconds. She looked at her like she wanted Harry to look at her. Like no one else in the world mattered, but he just left or blushed and avoided her ever since the engagement. Boys were so simple, yet so complicated when it came to express one’s feelings! It was exasperating.
“So, how do you imagine your wedding? Given that one day he’ll be heir, it should be a grand thing!” She wanted to strangle her so bad in that moment.
Why her? Why not me?
Supposedly, she should be thrilled of one day becoming a viscountess. She could tell by her eyes and mannerisms that she felt like a pig readying itself for slaughter. And she and Harry were closer than she’d like. She was aware that she didn’t have a right to be possessive, but the feeling was there and she couldn’t just ignore it. She wanted to shake her and scream at her, and demand why she accepted the proposal when it was obvious that it was the last thing in the world she wanted to do. She had at first thought she was just averse to touch in general, but it only seemed to be the case when a woman was around. She was hands-on and smiley, meanwhile with a man she was stern and mysterious.
She had heard many myths. That once upon a time, there had been a time where several women lived in the isle of Lesbos and engaged in romantic and emotional relationships among them, among them the infamous poet Sappho, whose book was deemed immoral and forbidden and burned down. She had also seen drawing of it in another countries, and some made her blush. And when they had been in the museums watching statues of Aphrodite, she had been wide-eyed and red. Could it be? That she felt that way with women the way she should feel about men?
Poor girl, she thought, unable to talk to someone or relate to it.
How lonely it must be, in such a poorly communicated world where one is trapped in a certain society full of rules, especially when one was a coloured woman. As her mother had told her, if women didn’t support one another, who would?
Theresa placed her hand on hers “If you ever need venting, I’m here.”
Annabelle blinked for a few seconds before nodding.
“I’m quite fine, honestly. I suppose the thrill will come the nearer the wedding is.”
They both knew she was lying. She would never find joy in it. Not as long as Harry was a man.
What a beautiful world would be, one with less rules on who to love, tasting the freedom of it, unbound and unapologetically, and shamelessly.
December, 1814
The rain had been pouring out like Heaven itself was falling, and Theresa needed some comfort, unable to sleep due to Henrietta’s hurtful remarks on how she chose to dress. Surely cream tulle was a sensible choice?
She quickly ducked into the library and started exploring where would she travel tonight, wondering whether Keats or Machiavelli would be good choices before drifting to sleep. She chose Keats and found herself engrossed in his work, deliciously scandalous with the right amount of salacious and fascinating tales. She couldn’t help herself with a snort, and when she looked up, she nearly screamed, were it not for her visitor’s quick hand covering her mouth. Such gesture made her cheeks redden.
“Forgive me,” Harry whispered, retracting his hand “but I heard a noise and thought we had an unwanted guest.” He observed her choice of reading and his eyebrows shoot up in amusement “I didn’t know you were interested in Keats.”
“I—I like the… gossip.”
Harry chuckled and took a dangerous step closer “You needn’t don your mask before me, Tess. I shall not tell a soul that you are smarter than you pretend to be.”
“I—I—that is—,” She sighed, chuckling “have you been spying on me, my lord?”
“Merely observing with attention.”
Her breath got caught “You ought to do that with Miss Parsons, not me.”
He took yet another step, and Theresa caught herself against one shelf, her eyes on Harry’s beautiful blue eyes, the same shade as the Edgewater colours “Why pretend that you are an airhead when you’re far more enthralling like that?” He asked, his voice musky.
“I don’t think you’d understand.”
He tucked one strand of hair in her ear and she noticed how unproperly dressed she was, in nothing but a nightgown and her hair down and unbound for rolling into the satin sheets. Their chests were inches close, and he too was in state on undress, only his shirtsleeves and pantaloons “Try me. I like to think that I am insightful.” His voice was a beautiful baritone whisper, a dangerous invitation. His fingertips now traced her neckline, as if checking her pulse, which was beating incredibly fast, and she looked away. His fingers caught her chin and made him look at him “Don’t. Don’t deprive me of your eyes. It’d be like depraving a lost man in a desert of water.” He whispered, so low she shouldn’t have to hear it in regular circumstances.
“Harry,” she breathed, her eyes on those beautiful lips she dreamt about in the high hours of the night.
“Tess,”
She had been so caught in the moment that she didn’t notice her book dropping slowly from her grasp, and its firm thud made her come to her senses and quickly ran away before he could even come to his own senses. She reached her bedroom and placed her hand on her chest, trying to get a hold of her heartbeats, that were as fast as a hummingbird. She swallowed hard and felt like she had run from Glasgow all the way here.
Locking the door for everybody’s sakes, she drifted to sleep, not before praying to God not to dream of Harry’s lips on her yet again.
April, 1815
Theresa had been comforting a crying Edmund, who silently dropped tears in her lap. It was a strange thing. Throughout their engagement, he had refused to even try to mellow her or try to win her heart. But he had proposed, and had wanted to make it look convincing. She had also noticed how Harry sent her gifts, shamelessly trying to win her to his side. She had always used his brother as excuse of returning the gifts. She wanted him badly, but she had grown up in a house close to God, always beseeching her to be a good and faithful woman even before marriage. If Edmund noticed, he didn’t care, for he was much more interested in hunting.
She had tried to even kiss him, even if it was chastely, but he always turned her away. The argument that followed was quite nasty “Am I not handsome enough for you?” She demanded.
“It’s not that.” He responded flatly.
“I am to be your wife. In these years, you have even refused to take my hand! As if we were committing incest of some sorts!”
He mumbled “What nonsense, Theresa!”
“Then what is it?! Is there another wench which I am unaware of?”
He looked at her horrified “Of course not! I am not a monster, Theresa!”
“THEN WHY WON’T YOU TOUCH ME?!” She cried out, exasperated. She took a deep breath “Sooner or later, we shall be man and wife. Everyone hopes that we start behaving like that. What is holding you back?!” At his silence, she quickly whispered “Do you… perhaps have issues… down there…?”
“My body functions just fine, Miss Sutton!” He declared, like she had just insulted him. Perhaps she had.
She bit her lip “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to insult you. I just… I want to understand why won’t you behave like my future husband! You proposed! You convinced my parents to marry us! Whatever had changed? Do you think I am a tattletale like the rest?”
“You’re not at fault here, Theresa. I… I made a promise.”
“I don’t follow. Do you want to remain celibate until marriage?”
There was a drowning silence, in which the country wind and their breaths were the only sound in the room “I do not… have talent in the amorous path.”
Theresa softened and placed her hand on his shoulder, and as usual, he flinched “I understand if you wish to remain innocent until our wedding night. I find it quite brave of you.”
He only nodded. Theresa was lucky that he didn’t flaunt himself in brothels and hoarded the maids’ bedrooms whenever he had needs. He was restraint and seemed to respect his promise to her. She didn’t know why, but she wanted to understand. She truly did.
“Now, let us go to get some tea.”
He gestured towards the door “Ladies first.”
Things had mellowed due to Harry’s death. She still donned her mask of a tattletale, despite the fact that he wouldn’t like it. This was the thing: men didn’t like women with minds of their own, with deep thoughts and ambition of their own. If she pretended long enough to be air-headed and only caring for gossip and a handsome, wealthy man and a good roof under her head, her life would be solved.
But neither Edmund or Harry were common men. They were men of cultures of their own. They were the sun and the moon, light and dark, Hades and Apollo. Harry was a promise of light, youthful beauty and arts and music flowing the room, as bright as the sun itself, meanwhile Edmund was peace, quiet nights where the lonely and unwanted souls could be free. They both completed one another, and now Edgewater had lost its sun the moment that dreadful boar had struck him down, like the comets had altered the universe with one strike.
There were colour with Harry, vibrant and inspiring people, lightening the way and the walls of the estate, and now he wasn’t here, and the world had fallen into darkness and wails of the ones who had found their purpose under Harry’s comforting light. She would no longer bathe into his sun, or feel his cologne, or see the ruffles of his beautiful hair, the chestnut that reminded her of the autumn paintings she loved.
Now, he just lived in her memory and the few portraits that had been made of him. Humanity was yet to find a way to immortalise somebody. Aged just seventeen, he had taken his holy light from them to perhaps never return.
March, 1816
Theresa had imagined Joanna in many ways before she arrived. Perhaps a female Harry, with his bright blue eyes and his chestnut hair. Instead, she had found a fiery, aloof and fierce young woman, with hair as red as fire itself, and with too many opinions for a world where one wasn’t allowed to have a voice. She admired her bravery and passion, that very much needed fire inside the now shadows of the estate. Light had returned to Edgewater, but with a terrible price.
She knew that Joanna didn’t like her, thinking of her a tattletale with no regard for anything save gossip. Perhaps it was for the best. But one thing was certain: she was a Foredale to the bone, and not even Henrietta’s schemes would take that away. She certainly knew how to get her way, and seemed more experienced in several things than the rest.
She was not a woman of her century, but rather advanced, perhaps too advanced for her own good. She didn’t demand attention with a well-practised nasal voice or to show off, she demanded it the moment she entered the room, without saying a single word, and it had nothing to do with her scandalous backstory, but rather her presence: commanding, alluring, poised, elegant and with a beauty that made men bow before her ethereal beauty, red, blue and white made a woman.
She had hopes that she’d finish what Harry had started. She truly did.
Late April, 1816
Theresa was aware that death always surrounded her, but she was not aware that it’d haunt whoever came too close to the vacancy of the head of Edgewater. It seemed like a curse; whoever dared to declare itself the heir, they’d have a horrible death.
Yellow fever. Boar attack. Murder.
No Foredale in power had any mercy in their last hours. The Earl had died with a terrible illness, Harry had been struck by a deadly boar, and now the duke had murdered Joanna, in her own prime, only for rejecting his affections, if they were even affections per se. They probably didn’t get past carnal possession. He was infamous for the death of any woman who had come close to him. Like yet another terrible curse that went back to the times of Henry VIII.
She had grown to love the woman, a mistake she had committed, and now she watched her be buried six feet deep, childless and without any clear prospect, her suitors devastated to watch her go before fulfilling promises made in hidden places and whispers. If someone deserved a happy ending, that was Joanna. And she herself had lost so much before yielding to death herself: her fiancé, her mother, her father and now herself. Those who had mattered to her, all dead in her arms. How terrible, to have death hovering over your shadow every time you opened up your heart and placed it before someone in your fist, hoping that they’d take care of it. They, unintentionally, had grabbed it and tore it apart before her eyes.
Poor girl, she thought. Poor child. So beautiful, witty, full of life, dreams and ambitions, now lying in the cold ground next to her loved ones, leaving other behind her, with their own hearts destroyed by her before them, even if she didn’t mean it either.
Theresa supposed that was what it meant to love and be loved: burn as bright as the sun and pray not to get burned, but not caring either when you’re into deep, lost in the flames of passion and longing.
She had burned not one, but four hearts, and one hadn’t bore the fire and left it to burn on its own. She’d certainly miss Annabelle, but didn’t blame her for fleeing before getting hurt again. Now the halls of Edgewater held too many memories of Harry’s laughter, Joanna’s bright smile and Vincent’s kind eyes. All of them gone before their time.
That night, after everyone went to sleep, Edmund had summoned her to the drawing room and beckoned her to take a seat “I know that it is perhaps not a good time, but Joanna would’ve wanted me, us, to be happy. I—,”
“You want to end this, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“…Thank God.” She breathed.
He frowned “What—,”
“Oh, don’t make of me a fool, Edmund. We were never meant to marry. I never loved you that way, and neither did you. You were bound by a promise, and my heart belonged to Harry all along. It’d be foolish of us to pretend this is going somewhere. And, perhaps, if we had been sincere with ourselves and one another, this wouldn’t have to be nasty.”
Edmund chuckled bitterly and asked “When did you become so wise?”
“I always have been. You were too focused on my tattletale role.”
Edmund closed the distance and kissed her cheek “You outplayed us all. You will have no trouble outliving this family, dear.”
She placed her hand on his cheek “I’d hate to see you die, though. I mean it. You have been a friend all along. You still matter to me.”
He kissed the inside of her cheek “As do you. I hope that you find a man who is worthy of you, Tessa.”
“As I do, Neddy. And if you have, tell her she has my blessing.”
December, 1816
So much had changed. She had changed. Everyone and everything had.
Joanna had come back from the dead, and Harry as well. Edmund had married Joanna’s lady’s maid, and she was to marry Harry. All because of a last-minute miracle that Joanna did. She had always been a curious thing. The moment they both had dismounted such big mares, Edgewater’s balance had been restored, and its pretenders were gone within the week.
And she was now expecting her first child, and would soon become Countess of Edgewater. If the Theresa from ten years ago heard of it, she’d call her a fool. Edmund was to be a father as well, as if both brothers had coordinated to have a child at the same time. It was certainly a curious thing both expectants had commented over tea.
Her life was as she dreamt once, and with a husband who saw her for who she was all along, she had been happy to drop her mask, leaving everyone dumbfounded when they saw how intelligent she was. This war with society was officially over, and she had won the fight.
My name is Theresa Marie Foredale, formerly Sutton, and I was born on a spring of 1794. My father is a reverend, and my mother is the daughter of a slave woman who could birth her in freedom.
Since infancy, I grew up and fell in love with Harrison Foredale, the heir of Edgewater Estate, but was betrothed in 1810 to Edmund Marlcaster, son of Henrietta Foredale of her first, tragic marriage.
From a young age, I realised that my talent for talking and having opinions was not an option if I wanted to survive, so I decided to don a mask of a chatterbox that only cared for gossip and status, but without letting go of my romantic nature. Why let go of it in the pinnacle of Romanticism? What a sin that would’ve been.
I chose my friends wisely, and played the game as well as I could. In 1815, my Harry died of a supposed boar attack, and I was now seemingly forced to make my engagement work, though we all knew it was a farce.
On the autumn of 1816, Joanna Foredale, who had been supposedly murdered by the Duke of Karlington stormed the doors with Viscount Harry by her side, everything changed. He claimed his spot as earl back, and he claimed me as his countess, and my, have I never been happier.
During a quiet night where we poured down our hearts, we gave to our burning passion in his bedroom, and that night, our future son was conceived. I still remember how painfully beautiful he looked under the moonlight and the last surviving candle, and how little we needed its flame, for we burned as bright as a comet in each other’s arms, the most beautiful and passionate of loves made into kisses and caresses. How he held me, looked at me and never let go of my hand in the whole night, calling me the most tender and loving names, calling me Tess, his Tess, like he had all his life.
We also had another seven beautiful children: Victoire, Vincent II, Dominique II, Charles, Anne, Lionel and Isobel Foredale.
Many speak of Joanna and her incredible deeds and passion that matches her fiery red head, but they will rarely speak my name: the countess and wife of Harry, who waited for him patiently and hopefully, as well as agonizingly for six years, and got him by a miracle that no one is yet to explain to me.
I am Theresa, the woman who fooled London’s Ton by playing a gossiping and nosy chatterbox, hiding underneath a woman of opinions, aspirations and sensible dreams behind that mask. But that was never a secret to my Harry.
They thought that a woman like myself, of brown skin and chatty and plain as day could ever aspire to countess, and I outwitted them all with patience and being observant. The fickle game of marriage within our high society was not easy, but in the end, I won it with sweat and tears, with rarely having the privileges my peers enjoyed. I am the first coloured Countess of Edgewater to grace its role, and I have done well by my name and status, giving it plenty of heirs and keeping alive its light.
It is my blood that resides in the current earl, yet all they talk about is her, her red hair and outwardly deeds. But I do not mind it. I know who I am, and that I was as relevant. We were sisters, allies and best of friends. She was remembered more often, but I have not fallen into oblivion just yet.
I am Theresa Foredale, the woman who outplayed all the rich, white ladies of Edgewater and got a prestigious status while the other sank. The moment I tied the knot with the earl was the last time I was underestimated.
My name is Theresa, the tattletale who won the game of marriages in London’s Season of 1816, loved by the people, Grandmother of Mayfair and who earned the love of an earl, and this is my story of going from an overlooked and underestimated reverend’s daughter to the Countess of Edgewater and lady of the House of Foredale, and I tell you this; to the little girl, brown of skin and told by the world to know its limits: there is nothing you cannot achieve if you wait patiently and believe in yourself and what you can achieve. If I, in 1816, could become a countess, I assure you, nothing can’t stop you of getting your way.
I may not be the most popular Foredale, but I am most certainly not irrelevant, for without me, a long line would’ve died. My name is Theresa, and it is up to you that you don’t make my years-worth work be done for nothing.
#project hail mary
#the amazing digital circus
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