The obsidian throne of the Citadel Condescension stands empty, entombed within ancient walls and high ceilings of dark granite. For the first time in two thousand years, the Empress has left her Empire.
————————————————
Innumerable miles away, an army moves as one through a broad yet treacherous passage, eyes and weapons glinting with every movement, stalagmites illuminated by the soft, unworldly glow of hovering magic orbs. A small faction of a small regiment near the middle hums the tune of A Girl Worth Fighting For from Mulan under their breaths. Bringing up the rear, thirty not-quite-creatures of magic and steel clamber magnificently through the tunnel, legs drawn close to better fit within the walls. At the front, the Empress herself walks regally into the dark, her silver diadem glimmering in the deep fuchsia light of her own conjured orb, her daughter at her right and Margrave Dualscar at her left.
By the end of the four-hour walk, the walls of the passage resound with drinking songs and the like.
The Empress, naturally, is the first to step out into the cold night air. She looks around, breathes in deeply, savors the taste of the sky; yes, she’s back, this is the freedom she’s spent so long biding her time for, and she will raze cities to secure it for her people. Her army trickles out of the cave slowly; soldiers and medics look up at the moon with wondering eyes and relish the feeling of fresh air in their lungs, voices disappearing into the clear night. It takes quite some time for the army to gather in the grassy expanse that starts not far to the west of the cave. They assemble in marching formation as directed, murmuring softly to each other about the surface and the sky.
At last, the Empress gently squeezes her daughter’s hand before letting go and rising up to hover twenty feet or so above the ground, at the front of the assembled forces. A wave of silence spreads immediately through the ranks.
She points with an open hand still to the west. Far in the distance, at the top of a hill, the silhouette of a castle blocks out a patch of stars. “Tonight,” she says, her calm voice ringing through the air, “we march. Tomorrow, we reclaim what has been taken from us, and show the humans what comes to those who sympathize with elves.”
————————————————
And they march. It takes three hours of wordless motion for the drow army to reach the hill on which the castle sits, their Empress flying high above them, moving softly past sleeping villages to settle in, quiet as the night. At the base of the hill, the soldiers spread out to make room for the metal monsters. The dronegorgs settle down encircling the hill, driving the pointed tips of their legs like stakes into the earth as steel panels fold out from the legs and click into each other, forming huge steel shelters. The soldiers file into the domegorgs, hefting rucksacks over their shoulders.
High above them, the Empress weaves an enchantment, her eyes and the inscriptions on her trident glowing as she incants, calling down her own power and the power of her gods. Her diadem shimmers and thrums with magic, and slowly the circle she’s drawn around the hill begins to glow as well. As she continues to incant, a deep fuchsia plane grows from the circle, seeming to breathe and build upon itself. A few drow soldiers outside the encampments stop and stare at the ethereal walls rising around them, but the Empress is distracted by nothing. She weaves the fabric of the dome with her magic, neither pausing nor blinking until at last the circle is closed on top and the whole dome pulses with dark magic, growing even stronger in its completion. At last, she seals it with a drop of blood that fizzles into the top of the dome and lowers herself down through the tingling sensation of the enchantment. Now, until she breaks the spell, no elven transportation circles will have any effect within the barrier. The only way out is through the one hundred thousand armed and bloodthirsty drow settled around the castle.
When the castle-dwellers awaken in the morning, the sky will be darkened and tinted unworldly fuchsia, and the world will never be the same.
The Temple of the Eldest stands proud, built into the easternmost wall of the Citadel Condescension, sheltered by the walls of your Palace.
Your hair twists and curls slowly about you as you stride towards the gaping beaklike maw of the temple, stepping around the rock formations in your garden, your garden which seems twenty miles across and more inscrutable than the furthest reaches of the zee these days. At the end of your trek, you come to stand a few feet before the dark stone facade, adjusting your bustle before you step inside. You move slowly, reverently deeper into the belly of the beast, until you reach a heavy door bearing a host of arcane symbols. You open it, step through, and let it close firmly behind you.
Within is an impenetrable darkness. It settles in on you, heavy as the cavern walls, and you bear it as well as you can. Here you are reduced again to an acolyte, little more than a child in the ancient eyes of the beast you come here to worship. Here you are nothing; you let the trappings of your station and self-importance slough off of your shoulders and into the darkness as you walk forward, blindly, faithfully. The dark swirls around you like your silken skirts, drawing you in deeper and deeper. It’s impossible to say how long you spend walking; murmuring a greeting, an invitation, an oath to the dark and whatever lurks in it. When it feels right, you stop.
“Lend me your ear, Mother, for these millennia of service I gladly provide. Twisted still in the depths, long forgotten beneath a world of stone, I am for you.” Your lips move and the words echo from your chest, filling the darkness. “From eternity borne and damnation deliver’d, I call upon thee.”
Before you, a flicker of deep fuchsia is born from the darkness; an unearthly fire dances to life in a circular hearth, illuminating the huge circular room around you. Concentric rings of small altars expand from that central point, bearing various items of power and significance. You lower yourself to your knees before the flame. Carved elegantly into the floor are names: Feferi, Leo, and eleven or so others, along with one engraving that has been obscured with candlewax-- yours, sealed away when you sacrificed your name to assume the mantle of )(er Imperious Condescension, ruler of the drow and servant of the gods. You let your hand trace the names of the family you’ve lost and the daughter you cling so desperately to for a moment, then set your silver diadem on the floor between you and the fire.
“Tomorrow we begin our journey to the Surface. We will lay siege to the human palace, show them what happens to the unfaithful. I have come to ask for your blessings, Mother, if you will listen.”
You speak slowly, carefully, your voice feeding the pink flames. You have so many sorrows to soften and create, so much favour to request, so many prayers to whisper. Most deeply you pray for the life of your daughter, whom you are not yet ready to lose; for power in the face of your greatest challenge; for the smile of a god whom you pray is listening. The flames give no response, but do not die, and so in the secret silence of the temple you murmur my true name. It is a greeting, an invitation, and an oath, and I am listening.
Ask, child.
You let out a soft breath. You thank me, for which there is no need, as this war is in service of Us.
Knowing that I cannot - or perhaps will not - grant victory directly, you ask:
First, for power. You have power in spades, borne of millenia of study and my favour. In this war, however, you know the power of a demigod will not suffice. You ask to be forged as the very sword I brandish in the face of our foes, your mind and body a weapon and a vessel of divine will made manifest.
Second, for aid. In this prison game, the elves have an advantage. Arcane circles of their own magic, used to move items and people instantly and without restriction. You do not know how to prevent them from using these, but you have faith in my potence.
Third, for guidance. You wish to carry out this campaign wisely and to suit my wishes; you recognize that my wisdom far overshadows yours and my desires cannot always be anticipated. If I am to lead you with signs, your path will be true.
Fourth, for Feferi. You will defend her with all the powers you can summon, but you implore me to protect her as well. You are so proud of her, and you love her so dearly, and you cannot bear to lose her so soon after Sara.
These are your requests, and you feel the response shifting in your bones, humming in the air. Your first request I will grant easily, of benevolence and self-interest both, as my choices so often are where you are concerned.
Your second request may be addressed well enough. The elves’ circles shiver with the magic of the void in which We reside. I might simply rest here in the void and consume any who dare to pass through-- the very idea seems delectable, although I would not wish to give such a quick and quiet end to any of those whom you intend to execute publicly. I will teach you a way, then, to help me settle down upon their circles and obscure them.
Your third request I will not grant. You, child, are the one entrusted with the keeping of the drow. It is your duty to lead them as you have learned to do. If there is something you must know, I will as always be lurking in your dreams.
As for the fourth, a daughter of my daughter is my daughter just the same, and I love her as you do. You may not think me capable of such attachment, and indeed We are in many ways indifferent to the tiny people and events of your world. This coldness is the toll of age and power, but still I defend my own. You will understand someday, my child. You are already beginning to understand. Soon you will become like Us.
You shiver, but do not recoil. The girl is defended. Put your crown in the fire, whisper the shadowed walls, and you obey. Now the darkness fills with my voice, and your lungs fill with it too, incanting in a language you are slowly learning to understand. The diadem glimmers and sparkles in the fire, a deep glow rising in it. Another item seems visible in the base of the hearth, through the flames. When the fire goes out, take the diadem and the charm. One will allow you to channel my power; the other will keep your daughter safe.
The flames flicker and die. You take out the items, which are cool to the touch, and turn to leave.
Once you stand again in the mouth of the temple, you look at these items. The gems in the diadem shine brighter than before, as if lit warmly from inside, and some sharp crystals have formed on its surface. The charm is a pendant on a gold chain, made seemingly of fire opal; small symbols flicker within it when held up to the light.
You put your crown back on, and begin the haunting trek back to your palace.
> Son.
The Cancer temple lies in ruins, deep in the labyrinth of the Ratlin Holds.
The Empire, of course, has given all forces a few hours off to visit their temples and say their prayers before you leave tomorrow. You considered stopping by to see Sollux and Will, but saying goodbye to him twice would cause more pain than you think you can handle-- and besides, you need all the time you can get to make the torturous hike to the Holds and back.
It seems all the other Cancer recruits are either blowing their free time and advance pay at a tavern or visiting one of the two small, secret temples that would be closer to the military base, considering your only company here is a small army of rats. A small pack tried to eat you just a minute ago, but you fended them off with some solid kicks and swipes in the right places, and now you’ve made it to the temple.
Standing in the shadow of what once was the building is harrowing. You never feel comfortable here, and you don’t know whether it’s because of the strife burnt into the rubble or the trepidation that strikes you when you face echoes of your failures, your ancestry, your god. Do you belong here? You were given a blessing, but you yourself have failed in refining it. Why hasn’t this god helped you? Helped your people?
There are answers to these questions somewhere, but you don’t know them.
For now, you swing a spear at another rat and climb over the debris to reach a little hole where a broken piece of wall leans against another, barely noticeable if you don’t know what you’re looking for, and slip into the darkness. It envelops you.
You move forward, fumbling. Your only comfort now is the knowledge that the rats never set foot (or paw) in the temple. After a few moments of groping in the thin air, you bump into an altar and curse. Make peace with your god, they said. It’ll be cathartic, they said.
Concentrate for a moment, and your hands start to glow. Concentrate harder, feeling the magic flow through you, and they glow brighter. Now you can see the temple: the walls, worn and cracked and crumbling; the room, cramped and uneven (it’s effectively just a cave in the rubble of the original temple); the altars, few and fading; the hearth, dirty and ancient. On the floor are thousands of names, filling the buckled stone and spilling up onto the walls, many obscured by the rubble. Each one is etched crudely into the rock, handwriting cramped to save room for others-- here is a living testament to every Cancer inducted in the Citadel Condescension through its two-thousand-year history.
Your name is a few steps to the right of you. You know its position, but it still takes a few moments to find it. KARKAT VANTAS. Exactly six steps towards the hearth from here is your ancestor’s name.
You sit down heavily next to the hearth, rubbing your face with your glowing hands. You don’t know what to do now.
Ultimately, you sigh and glare into the center of the hearth with your arms crossed. “Hey, uh, Cancer?”
You pause. There’s no response.
“Yeah, long time no talk I guess. Very long time, on your end. You’re probably hearing this from a lot of people today, but we’re shipping out tomorrow. For war.
“I never thought I’d join the army, you know? I always imagined I had at least more dignity than that. But, you know, being a disappointment to literally everyone I’ve ever met I guess it was only a matter of time before I disappointed myself, too. Anyways, you… probably don’t care about that.” You sigh. “I don’t know what I’m here to say, to be honest. And you’re probably not even listening, not that I can fucking blame you. I’m sure there are a shit ton of Cancers all over the Empire who are way more deserving of your attention right now.
“I guess, well, for one thing I wanted to say… I’m sorry. I’m sorry I never shaped up to be like my grandfather or whatever. I don’t know if you wanted me to, like, do the sort of things for you that he did, but I think a lot of the clan wanted that. So yeah. If you had some high hopes or big plans for me, I’m sorry to disappoint. Although I kind of wonder if you’re mad at me for that, and that’s why my whole life is so categorically terrible. I almost just hope you don’t give a fuck about me at all and I’m the unluckiest kid in the citadel, because then at least it’s not my fault, you know?” You shrug. “But also… I really want you to care. I know that’s not something the gods tend to do, but… I guess a lot of my life revolves around really desperately wanting someone to care about me. I want to feel important, and… loved, because I don’t think I’ve really felt that before. I would like that. I would really like to feel loved one time before some elf shoots an arrow through my skull. Just so I could-- fucking, know what it feels like. Before I die.” You cough and rub your eyes roughly.
“I’ve never known what the fuck to do with my life, honestly. I’ve been so preoccupied with surviving just, every bullshit day, I never bothered to do anything. So I guess it makes sense that I should just throw it away, because then at least I’m not wasting food that could be used by people who would make it mean something.
“Fuck, I’m rambling. I don’t know. I guess… if you’re listening, if I could ask for one thing, I could use some guidance. Advice, or some bullshit. I don’t know what to do. I’m going to die, whether it’s in battle or in court or getting eaten alive by a rat, it doesn’t fucking matter, and I just really… really wish there was a way for me to not die a lonely failure.”
Your words hang in empty air. You wait, looking at your hands as one tear leaves a streak on your grubby face and you refuse to acknowledge it, and nothing happens.
You sit there for seven and a half minutes, waiting, just in case.
Eventually, you stand up and growl “Fine, then, fuck me. This was bullshit anyways. What a waste of my fucking time. I have better things to do than fucking-- fucking whine to bullshit gods like a stupid toddler! What’s the point of having gods if they don’t do shit to help the people they’re supposed to take care of? Don’t even acknowledge them? Fuck you, man.” You give a cry of frustration and knock an altar over before stomping out into the winding streets, and I listen.
She’s a force of nature, that Sara Neadie. Of all the humans on Skaia, you’re goddamn lucky she was the one who drilled a hole into your empire.
“We’ll bring those bitches to their knees yet,” you told her, and you knew it was true, especially with her in your arms. She was the not-so-secret weapon you never knew you needed, and whatever’s left of your heart after two thousand years of dark magic and spite belongs to her entirely. And she was yours, too, she was The One you never halfway believed you’d find– you knew it in the fire in her eyes, the warmth of her lips, the elegant diamond ring on her third finger.
The hardest part of Gl’bgolyb’s blessing has always been the times, though few and far between, when you’ve allowed yourself to love. Every relationship, every child, every person you’ve cared about, feels like yet another deal with a dark god, feels like you’re agreeing to have that one piece of joy in your life, at the price of watching them die.
(You’ll get to watch them grow old, too, if you’re lucky.)
You weren’t lucky.
She was a force of nature, yes, but now her hurricane is locked away in a golden tomb deep beneath your Shuttered Palace (you know that’s what they’re calling it now, you hear them talking), and you’re alone again.
Alone somehow more than you were before, even as you sit and brush your beloved daughter’s hair. She and Elliot, the human, are the only two people you’ve held audience with since the assassination. You haven’t allowed her to leave the Palace, and especially haven’t allowed her into the gardens. It’s strict of you, you know, but you’re certain she understands. You can’t lose her too, not yet.
It’s like you didn’t know how lonely you were before Sara came along, and now that she’s gone you’re all too painfully aware of the emptiness she left behind. She was fire, she was the light and warmth of the sun in your icy arms, and now that she’s gone all you know is the cold of her absence. You shut yourself away, and you grieve.
But you know who killed her. Grief, as it always does with you, rots and twists itself into unbridled rage. The emptiness in you, the cold left behind, grows and grows until it consumes you entirely, until all the comfort you can find is the vision of the divine, wrathful vengeance you will bring down upon the surface. You will raze their shining cities to the ground, you will strip their rulers to the bone, you yourself the very infernal visage of sheer agony, until they feel some fraction of the pain you’ve known these two thousand years. You will not rest, will not retreat, will not hesitate until they grovel and sob at your feet. You will find Sara’s flame even within your ice; you will use her memory to rain hellfire upon the people responsible for her death.
Feferi and Elliot stand beside you as you wait for your moment, eyes tracing the arcane inscriptions on your trident. On the other side of the double doors in front of you, thousands upon thousands of citizens and soldiers have gathered to hear you speak, to see you appear for the first time since she was killed. You take a few deep breaths, place your hands on your whalebone corset for a couple seconds, then stride towards the doors.
The moment you step out onto the balcony, a cheer rises from below. Feferi and Elliot follow you out. The voices of your people support you, give you even more confidence than you knew you had. You stop once the train of your dark, tiered skirt is through the doorway, standing a few feet from the black marble railing, setting the tip of your trident on the floor. From here, you survey the crowd; the crowd of citizens to one side and legions of soldiers lined up on the other; the trenches full of training gear and weapons construction in the distance. A few humans are mixed in with both groups.
They need direction, you can feel it. They don’t know where to go from here. They need you to guide them. To inspire them.
You raise your free arm, and the crowd goes silent, all eyes fixed expectantly on you.
“I built this empire from rubble,” you begin, your voice clear and firm, filling the air. “I built this Palace from the desolation left behind by the elves two thousand years ago. And for two thousand years thereafter, I have guided us forward with the constant directive that we do not forget the pain of the past, that we strive higher and higher until one day we rise above those who have done us wrong and declare justice for ourselves, in honor of those we have lost.”
You pause.
“My wife is dead.” It’s as if the entire Empire is holding its breath. Your voice is steady. “My matesprit, my beloved, was killed by an elf in my own garden. The pain of the past is no longer in the past. The elves not only bear the sins of their fathers, but the sins they have committed with their own hands. We must grieve, yes, we must mourn, but we can never lose sight of the cause for which our loved ones fought, and for which they died, or their deaths will surely be in vain.
“I have cried a thousand tears, over Sara, over my own parents and children and siblings, over each and every drow and human who has been murdered by elves. But we cannot let loss deter us. When last the drow faced the elves, they drove us underground, to spend two thousand years in darkness and hunger. They saw us as weak. And so we became strong.
“And we are strong. We, the humans and the drow, are so much stronger than the elves will ever be. I promise you, they will know fear, and they will know pain, and they will know loss, ten times for every one of us who falls.
“I promise you, we will not forget the fallen. I promise you, every warrior who falls in our battle for justice will be a martyr, inspiring a hundred more to carry their torch forward.
“I promise you, I will be guiding you. See me here before you, hear my voice and know the pain I have felt and the pain I have shared with all of you. Know that I will not waver until we topple the elven thrones and bring desolation to their prosperity. Know that we cannot, we will not fail as long as we keep in mind the battle and keep in heart the fallen. We have seen death the likes of which they have never known. Too many have died already, and many more will be lost, but they will carry us forward. Each loss will make us stronger. We will not rest, and we will not fail.
“See me here before you. hear my voice and know the pain I have felt. Know the strength I carry in every inch of my body. I, blessed by the eldest god, will bring our people to victory.
“I am your leader. I am everlasting. I am undeterrable.
“I am DEATH ITSELF, and the elven tyrants will know my wrath.”
You thrust your trident into the air. “TO VICTORY, TO GLORY, TO JUSTICE!”
The crowd roars, and your cry is repeated by the people below you. Their chant crescendos, filling the enormous cavern and bouncing off the roof of the Citadel Condescension as you see huge figures begin to shift and rise from the trenches, giant hulking beasts made of steel and obsidian, all unsettling joints and twenty-foot legs moving impossibly wrong, puffing steam and shimmering with your power. Your very own angels of death, born from the combined highest power of drow magic and human technology to wreak vengeance upon your surfacedwelling enemies.
You’ll bring those bitches to their knees yet, you and Sara.
The elven kingdom will fall at your hand. They’ll pay for what they’ve done, and a thousand times over.
TRAINED BLACK LACE EVENING GOWN with SEQUINS, c. 1905.
2-piece dotted net with lace insertions and velvet trim over cream silk faille: Boned square neck front closing bodice with puffed shoulder, ruffled ¾ sleeve decorated with sequins, velvet bands and shell pattern lace. Skirt with two wavy bands of floral lace, ruffled hem with velvet bands.
FRENCH TRAINED IVORY SILK BENGALINE WEDDING GOWN, 1860.
Open V-neck boned back lacing bodice with points, short sleeve with lace on net bell, trimmed in bands of satin ribbon, muslin lined. Bustle skirt with large train having applied hem band of Van Dyke points bound in satin, satin bow at waist and below bustle, hem stiffened and trimmed with pleated voile and lace, lined in glazed cotton.
For anyone who’s studying Victorian literature, or writing historical fiction, or who’s just plain interested in it, here ya go: an introduction to the fascinatingly Janus-faced era that brought us into the “modern” world.
Feel free to add to this, as I will continue to add to and edit it as I go through my own library and discover new sources as well.
Please note that my broke self isn’t making ANY money off of any of these links that link to sale pages, I’m doing this to help you guys and procrastinate
General Reference Websites:
The Victorian Web: if you’ve ever written a research paper on anything even vaguely associated with the century, you’ve been here. It’s best for literature resource and has a TON of links to full-text copies of novels, essays, and poetry. Not to mention free access to secondary sources God save the Queen.
BBC: History: Victorian is sadly no longer updated, but functions much like a reliable wikipedia on the century. Includes links so social life and behaviors of the people of the time period.
Victorian Studies: it’s technically an academic print journal, but let’s be real, we all read those online now covers everything having to do with things under Victoria’s reign and ocassionally extending back or forward a bit as well. You can access some issues of it for free here (and EVEN DOWNLOAD THEM). Or if you’re rich or a student using library access, you can also use JSTOR (if you’re neither rich nor a student, check to see if your local library has JSTOR access. They’ll also teach you how to use it).
Story of England: The Victorians: run by the English Heritage’s network, this provides a bright and quick (if not…shiny) view of literally everything from the time.
Victoria & Albert Museum: often shortened to “V&A” this museum houses art and design from the 17th century and earlier on to the modern day. Their online galleries are image rich, and include costume from all eras, Regency era furniture and more.
The British Museum: aka Heaven aka “I need to forget that at LEAST 1/3 of this stuff is stolen to enjoy this” they have collections ranging from the literal dawn of human existence to the modern day, and as expected they have Victorian things as well. The link given is for gallery of Europe 1800-1900.
General Reference Books:
What Jane Austen Ate and Charles Dickens Knew by Daniel Pool: I can’t praise this one enough; whenever I’m writing this thing is within arm’s reach. Sure, google is faster, but the glossary in this book is a great source in and of itself: over 100 pages of Victorian terms. The first 2/3 of it is a short, sweet, and to the point Victorian Life 101. Now I never noticed this becuase I read a shit-ton of Victorian lit since I don’t have a life but he does name-drop and reference a million different literary works, sometimes literary characters without naming their work of origin, but knowing these is unneeded to understand the content.
The Lion and the Unicorn: Gladstone vs. Disraeli by Richard Aldous These guys were the British Hamilton and Burr. They hated each other, were on opposing political sides for EVERYTHING (some say just to spite the other), and couldn’t escape each other even in death, being buried within a yard of each other. If you want to know how the government grudges worked in this time period, give it a look. They also played VITAL roles in several major changes to British law.
Daily Live in Victorian England by Salley Mitchell: Much like What Jane Austen… this covers every aspect of Victorian life, but in slightly more detail. It focuses on why things were a certain way and how current events impacted the culture in addition to telling how things were.
How to be a Victorian by Ruth Goodman: This one’s kind of fun,it’s arranged about life from morning through to the night, and has had several printings and “sequels” to the series (there’s a Tudor and a Middle Ages one too I believe). The only downside is that (though Ms. Goodman goes out of her way to mention different parts of the century), the clever layout still insinuates that the century was rather…homogenous rather than constantly changing.
The Queen (book)
Victoria: A Life by A. N. Wilson is a very good (and of reasonably length) biography of her ascension to the throne and ruling, leaving out none of the cringe (Empress of India, anyone?), but also her strengths as a leader. No understanding of the century is complete without a concept of the regent that gave her name to it. I’m guilty of watching and liking the show too, but that recent BBC drama on her was so painfully inaccurate I was tearing at my hair while begging for it to become a fully ahistorical work and end differently. So please. Do your writing a favor and familiarize yourself with the actual events.
Yikes: Nasty things the Empire did (not complete list) (books)
The Crimean War by Orlando Figes: This was a particularly violent and nasty mess that shook the Victorian world to the core.
Tom Brown’s School Days by Thomas Hughes: a frightening glimpse into how a generation of men were raised into war-mongering Churchill’s who saw battle from the backseats as a “jolly good time” (his line, not mine), while the poor men died in droves at the front lines. This is the generation of old men that sent all of England’s youth to the slaughterhouses of the trenches in WWI. It covers the schooling only, but the implications of the future are what make this otherwise charming pastural bildungsroman into a disturbing light.
The Boer War by Thomas Pakenham: a war sprung on by greed and racism, it became as bloody as you can imagine a war started for such reasons would become. Though it stretches into the Edwardian, my personal opinion is that it’s out break in 1899, more than Victoria’s death in 1901, truely marked the end of an era for the empire on which the sun never set.
An Era of Darkness: The British Empire in India by Sashi Tharoor: Company ruled for nearly 100 years before the “mutiny” in 1857, Britain essentially took over India. This chronicles the use and abuse the empire committed on the people and land of “their” “colony.”
Crime (books)
Victorian Murderesses by Mary S. Hartman: if you’re going to go the dark route and don’t want to deviate too much from history, this is an interesting read. Covers the crime, conviction, punishment, and general circumstances surrounding crimes committed by women in both France and England.
Unconscious Crime: Mental Absence and Criminal Responsibility in Victorian London by Joel Peter Eigen: Where do I start? This covers several case studies of crimes committed by those who were in temporary states of madness, sleep walking, or otherwise “not in their proper mind” when committing violent crimes, and how the Victorian judicial system handled these claims in an era that was disproportionally fascinated by death and crime. The author is a great dude and kind of local to me, and has another book called Witnessing Insanity on more madness in the English court system.
The Invention of Murder by Judith Flanders: EXCELLENT if not lengthy read, and entertaining enough on it’s own to read without just using it as a reference for your current work. If you’re writing on the early detective novels, early police departments, or writing a story about a crime during this century I can’t reccomend it enough. She also wrote The Victorian City which focuses on the earlier part of the Victorian era.
Fashion
Victorian Fashion by Jayne Shrimpton: photographic history of Victorian fashion, touches on Edwardian as well
Nineteenth Century Fashion in Detail by Lucy Johnston: more of a specific look at certain items than a complete overview, it nonetheless has some fascinating points on different style elements such as embroidery, materials, construction details/stitching, and etc. Images from the Glorious V&A museum
Other Specialized Topics (books)
Servants: A Downstairs History of Britain from the Nineteenth Century to Modern Times by Lucy Lethbridge: Once again, a vital thing for writers. In an entertainment industry post-Downton Abbey, this is a bit more focused, but if Howard’s End is your only reference point for life for the serving class, familiarize yourself with their lifestyles, what was expected of them, and how they were treated.
Mrs. Beeton’s Book of Household Management: an original source book from 1861, it collects all her articles on how to run a happy and healthy home, behave like a proper woman, and care for the family.
The Victorian Book of the Dead by Chris Woodyard: You could fill a LIBRARY with books and essays written on the Victorian’s obsession with death and mourning. For example: did you know that excessive mourning was actually quite rare? Queen Victoria’s behavior after Albert’s death was considered very unusual, and more than that….a sign of wealth. However there were rituals even the lowest classes stuck close too throughout the century and this tome delves into even some of the more obscure trends and beliefs surrounding the cult of mourning.
