Magna

October 5, 2025

"Good day. This is Lord Edmund Worthington. If you will be so kind, please leave your name, rank, and an address, and where I may reach you, and I will return this correspondence in a timely manner. And now what do I press? Pound? What symbol is a pound? I believe I would have an easier time navigating my device were it not such an antiquated piece of rubbish. It is obsolete. It is these telecommunication companies, overwhelming the populace with their obnoxious advertisements. They're coercing the consumer into purchasing countless system updates! It's an abuse of capitalism and certainly not the vision behind our laissez-faire market."

Cracking up in the middle of the crowded Tesco supermarket at Lord Worthington's pre-recorded voice mail message, I attract glares from way too many people. The sheer absurdity of his formal, antiquated pronouncements echoing through the modern aisles was too much to contain. I resist the urge to clap at Edmund's yet again non-intentional display of intellect and acute sense of humor.

Calling him a fast learner yet again would be underestimating him.

I speak into the receiver.

"Eddie, if I'd known this is what'd happen after I bought you and me a pair of these obsolete, twenty-first-century cell phones... I might've never done it. Thanks for leaving me, like, the longest voicemail of my life. Here's what my voicemail should say from now on: 'I won't be listening to your message before deleting it, but feel free to leave one if it makes you feel better. Listen, I was calling you to ask you if you're okay with lamb and pumpkin for supper tonight? Call me back when you can.'"

My phone lights up with a text.

"I miss you."

My heart beats a fraction faster.

Well, that was unexpected. He misses me? He just saw me an hour ago!

"Please confirm plans for tomorrow."

Plans for...

My brain pieces out the missing elements of the puzzle.

He's mistakenly texting me instead of someone else!

Damn. That boy moves fast on unknown territory. Look at him, ready to score!

The opportunity is just too good to be missed.

I text back.

"Plans for tomorrow: confirmed."

"I am glad." His reply arrives. "May I be so bold as to enquire an immediate portrait of you for my phone? With your hair down, if possible?"

I chuckle at his request. Boys will be boys, whether in nineteenth, twenty-first, or twenty-third century.

A portrait, a selfie, or a hologram — just different ways for them to visualize the gal of their dreams.

"Where's mine?" I make a bold demand, all the while laughing inwardly, and sure enough, I get his 'selfie.' The image popped up, surprisingly well-composed, a testament to his quick adaptation.

When did he learn how to do that, the handsome, resourceful devil?

Edmund has the kind of face that stops me in my tracks.

Intensity, honesty, and gentleness emanate from his eyes, accompanied by a kind smile and an obligatory blush that makes him look oh-so modest and down-to-earth.

He's handsome, alright, but his facade only reflected his inner beauty and intellect.

I decide to end his charade.

"Dauum, Eddie. Sexy as hell." I send Lord Worthington a reaction with a smirky emoticon, with an attached supermarket selfie, and a reply is immediate.

"Miss Reign???"

🕰

I giggle all the way back to "Addison's Antiques."

As soon as I open the door to the place, he emerges from the back room, all serious and business-like, as if our text had never even happened. His posture was ramrod straight, a perfect imitation of a man who had no idea what a "sexy as hell" text meant.

"Ah, Miss Reign. It's good that I have caught you. This arrived for you. More treasures from the Amazonian forests, I suppose?" He tilts his head.

"Ah, Lord Edmund." I bow before him, my breath hitched. "The treasure from the Amazonian forest that I ordered a week prior to this one must be my Auxfun automatic self-pleasuring dildo machine. I cannot wait to unwrap it and test it out."

Edmund's mouth twitches, and his bushy eyebrows knit together. "A self-pleasuring... dildo machine?"

I can literally see warmth creep up his ears as he comes to the realization what the machine might be.

"What? Gal's gotta have her fun!" I manage between two hiccups. "The key to a really great posture is a large, well-placed dildo. In a movie you have yet to see, Eddie, a famous actress claims that diamonds are girls' best friends. I call bull. Dildos are girls' best friends! At least to those who are not all so handsomely-looking as yourself, Milord."

"So you think I am handsomely-looking, Miss Reign?"

Is that what he got of this entire conversation? Or perhaps he simply prefers to not discuss dildos.

"Don't let it get into your head, buster." I stifle a giggle.

"Well, I shall let you know you are very beautiful as well. Yet it is the person inside that determines your qualities, not the outer shell that one can shed or re-shed at will."

"How poetic of you. And still you demand immediate portraits of beautiful women, do you not?" I try my best to give him a conniving grin and to tame my inner green-eyed monster.

"I would be a fool if I said I am not pleased by a pretty sight. There: I admit it: I do not shun beauty, and I seek it out, like any other man. Yet this is my stance on it: it is like a fine-tasting wine, a mere complement to our inner character, but never a main course."

He changes the subject, pointing at the groceries I bought, before I can spend a few more moments reveling in his clever simile.

"My God. Where did you procure such massive quantities of provisions? Is there a nearby citadel?"

"A supermarket: called Tesco. Buy in Bulk, spend less. I'll take you there some day if you want."

"And is that a variation of water?" His eyes widen in surprise.

"Yep. A water brand. The cheapest one."

"You paid for water? Why not drink from one of the thousands of taps around town?"

"Ugh... Earth to Edmund? London tap water has been unsafe to drink for couple of years now."

He bends his head. "Verily? The extent to which future generations have defiled this earth is truly mind-boggling."

If he thinks that of the twenty-first century, what would he think of my future?

"This is why I am a proud Green Peace member. I really hope we'll make a difference, somehow." I sigh. "And, well, you don't have to worry about me buying water: between what you earn here with Mr. Addison and my programming money, we are more than covered. Not to mention the duckie Mr. Addison is looking after."

"Hmm." He looks pensive for some reason. "And what else have you bought, enchantress?"

He calls me enchantress when he's in a good mood, and I can't help but smile at the familiar nickname.

"Well, I bought some lamb. Then, a turkey to roast in the oven for the Harvest Day dinner."

"Of course. Harvest day." His knuckles turn white, and he lets out a huff.

"What's wrong, Edmund?"

"Nothing. Everything. This... Holiday." He slumps in a nearby chair. "All the talk of holidays, family time, irks me. Because of my family. If I cannot be with them during a time of thanks and celebration, why must there be so many constant reminders of the inescapable fact that I..."

"You feel alone." My voice is soft, barely a whisper, and he doesn't deny it. The silence stretched, heavy with unspoken grief.

"Miss Reign. You know I mean no disrespect. Your company holds the greatest value to me, as strange as it may sound."

"You're alone. And it's all my fault. You have a right to be angry with me."

"I am not angry with you, I assure you." He places his hand on my shoulder, and butterflies swarm in my belly. "Far be it from me to cast an additional burden on the guilt you are already carrying."

"You've lost more than anyone ever should." I quiver from his touch.

"We both have. Perhaps, it would be for the best if we put on our brave faces? Besides, what are holidays for if not airing our grievances?"

"Right! My soon-to-be-burnt turkey and gluten-free pumpkin pie might be just what we need to lift our spirits. Okay, this is not the greatest sales pitch. There'll be wine. Your favorite. This is the time for reflection. We see what we have now, and we grab the moment. Embrace what's in front of us." I joke, and he returns a half-smile.

"Carpe diem. A wise saying if there ever was one, Miss Reign. Yet I constantly think of my past. I miss my mother and my sister. Ha, I even miss Miss Epcot, and I did not think that possible since, knowing what I know now, I would never become her spouse. But you see, the concept of mortality gnaws hard on my chest. I was born more than two centuries ago, and my family has all but perished. And still, I cannot seem to find any information on their existence or well-being. I have to take comfort in the fact that they lived out the rest of their lives as well as they could."

"Want me to... look for them? My wondrous Elgoog Monster, as you call it, could perform a search on your ancestry." My fingers draw circles on my temples.

"Sometimes you understand too much, without me even saying anything. It's the witch in you. That look could pry secrets from the blackest souls. But let us not seek out my family just yet. I do not feel I am ready. If we do it, it will be like I am... acknowledging their deaths. Do you understand what I mean?"

I nod.

"But I am very grateful for the offer, nonetheless. I am beginning to like your Questions and Answers mach... I mean, the computer. It's a wondrous window to the world. But I am still puzzled by the notions of social networks, mind you. How it is those people have five hundred friends? I only ever had seven close companions. Some of them perished due to tuberculosis." He shakes his head in wonder.

"I suppose the term 'friend' is used more loosely these days, Milord. But you seem to have acquired a new one." I wink at him. "Do tell!"

"How so? Oh." A shadow of realization crosses his countenance. "The girl whom you pretended to be today."

"How did you two meet? I'm burning with curiosity!"

"Well. I have had an awkward moment on the porn hub page when an advertisement accidentally took me to her video. I arrived to the chat lounge and immediately inquired: 'Well, how did we get here?' Svetlana happened to be there and, she wrote: 'Hey sexy, wanna chat?'"

I double down holding my stomach in mirth.

I just can't imagine Edmund in such predicament.

"What did you tell... Svetlana?"

"I replied: 'I am flattered, madam, but I am afraid I am not interested. Yet the beguiling woman beguiled me, by sending me multiple of these... texts over the past days. Svetlana even taught me that these missives composed by thumb can not adequately convey emotion. Hence, I began using emoticons. Oh yes, these little grimacing lemon caricatures. At first we only talked via pornhub, but then we also exchanged phone numbers!"

The little boy smile that graces his face stills my tongue.

I have no heart to tell him about who Svetlana is, not at first, but during the preparations for the Harvest Day supper, Edmund surprises me with a maturity with which he accepts it all.

He tells me he has decided not to write the 'computer brothel girl anymore' and then performs the whole ritual in which he cooks for the two of us.

Lord Worthington apparently has learned how to prepare a moussaka!

He calls it a special treat, a miracle of modern life, a celebration creation.

With his sleeves rolled up, knife and a chopping board, blushing Edmund seems like a creator of his own world.

He chops onions, bacon and cheese, peeled potatoes, scrambled eggs, fries onions and bacon, and then arranges it all in a clay pot —a row of potatoes, a row of minced meat, and in the end he waters it all with milk and eggs.

"We light the oven, and we put the pan covered with foil," he says, laughing like a mischievous boy. "I have seen a male cook say this during a You Tube programme, and I have always wanted to try."

His 'My cooking cannot turn out to be worse than yours, Miss Reign' remark lands him a blow on the nape as he adds some curry on top of his pie.

"Spices are like people, wouldn't you say?"

"In what way?" I am interested to hear about his perspective.

"Passengers. From turmeric to chili peppers, stirred by winds, storms, fogs, salted with rain and noons without wind, heated with the sand heat, spiced up with the enraged beeps of sirens, the sounds of crackling walnuts, the rustling of coffee leaves, the fine cracking of crab shells, the clatter of oysters, drenched in red wines and white, northern waters and southern oil, served on jade plates, on trays with enamelled ornaments, slurped, sucked, licked, melted, nibbled, swallowed. To the glory of life."

We savor a very tasty shepherd's pie garnished with bacon and cheese, and sip red wine, turkey long forgotten.

He keeps speaking, and I float in the warm, exotic sea of his story, admiring Lord Worthington's silver tongue.

A man who talks like this, who understands the nuances to lights, tastes and smells, who has such knowledge and such fantastic descriptions of everything under the cap of heaven...

He is no ordinary man.

Edmund chuckles as if he senses my thoughts.

Who's to say he doesn't?

"I might have... dabbled in writing back home. But all those books are gone now. Lost in some other life."

"You should try writing again." I place a comforting hand over his.

The light changes its quality, and it begins to fade.

"And you, Miss Reign, should never try cooking again. Making a real hearty meal is not the same as preparing your witchy potions in a cauldron." He smiles.

Absolute peace reigns outside, and that peace, that serenity, it also rules among us.

All of a sudden, it's like Edmund and I have always known each other, as if this scene —the two of us at the kitchen table, raising wine glasses, with a story that binds us with invisible and wonderful threads.

A story that chooses both the narrator and the listener, has always existed and seems to exist forever.

A timeless moment, just two people enjoying the blessing of food on a holiday during which you are not supposed to be alone.