Steam Expectations (new idea for 2014?)

Based loosely on Great Expectations, but in a steampunk universe:

A female Pip - lives with her mother and "father"; oldest of 7 siblings.  They are poor; she is mistreated by her father, who is not kind to any of the children, but singles out our heroine for particular mistreatment.  There are rumors that before her parents were married, her mother was scandalously jilted by the blacksmith (or perhaps vice versa?) - a scarred and cynical man who nevertheless shows grudging interest in our heroine.  She daydreams that he is her father, as she was born when her parents had been married for only 6 months, healthy and strong for an early infant.  Fed by a wet nurse though others were fed by their mother.  She is strong and unconventional--a reader and dreamer as well as a capable cook, governess, housecleaner, and seamstress, she also has inclinations toward natural history (dinosaurs) and a fascination with glass blowing and weaponry.  In winter, she can often be found at the forge, though her parents tell her that she will be ruined by keeping low company (what are we if not low? is her response)

A male Estella - the ward of a very wealthy, single eccentric known for having been famously left at the altar by his fiancee.  (Fiancee was kidnapped into a flying brothel.)  He is also a bitter academic (think Charles F. Muntz in Up) who is doubly shunned because of his theories (something to do with ancient creatures, plate techtonics, or something--must be theoretically falsifiable; maybe human evolution/missing link?) and because of his supposed lack of manliness--that he was abandoned by a woman (is he impotent? and how can someone so unmanly be a scientist?) Has been raised (in a dirigible) with the objective of ruining as many fashionable young women as possible--or of ruining them for society without actually "ruining" them, so as not to tarnish himself.  Purity and cruelty go hand-in-hand with this one, but he is also detatched. He should not be too unsympathetic.

The situation - Our heroine finds herself the recipient both of the attentions of our "hero" and of an unexpected education from an undisclosed source.  The school is international--the British Empire is well represented.  It is based on land because to have young women flying about is not yet considered entirely proper.  The education is to be both moral and scientific, but is also to emphasize the power that women have over men.  Our heroine is a dreamer, vulnerable to attentions that she has not had.  (The education is paid for by the blacksmith's sister, a prostitute, who was the kidnapped fiancee.)  Like Pip, she becomes convinced that she is being groomed as a scientist and a bride for her counterpart, and also obsessed with who her benefator is.

More - because she has a handsome allowance, our heroine also tries to help her sisters and her mother, with disastrous consequences.

Still more - Our heroine falls in love with our hero, as he intends.  And with the school's guidance, she attempts to seduce/woo while avoiding ruin.  But this is not to be.  And she realizes it and moves away just as he begins to realize that he is in love with her--or could be.  Unlike Pip, she does not wait to be hurt, and she does not crawl home.  There may be another love interest, but perhaps better (by which I mean--more unexpected) if not.

Rules of Storytelling from Pixar

Every time I think about writing, my November Project is in the back of my mind.  I found this list of Pixar's Rules of Storytelling to help me get back to it some day:

These rules were originally tweeted by Emma Coats, Pixar's story artist. Number nine on the list—when you're stuck, make a list of what wouldn't happen next—is a great one and can apply to writers in all genres.1. You admire a character for trying more than for their successes.
2. Keep in mind what's interesting to you as an audience, not what's fun to do as a writer. They can be very different.
3. Trying for theme is important, but you won't see what the story is actually about until you're at the end of it. Now rewrite.
4. Once upon a time there was ___. Every day, ___. One day ___. Because of that, ___. Because of that, ___. Until finally ___.
5. Simplify. Focus. Combine characters. Hop over detours. You'll feel like you're losing valuable stuff but it sets you free.
6 . What is your character good at, comfortable with? Throw the opposite at them. Challenge them. How do they deal?
7 . Come up with your ending before you figure out your middle. Endings are hard, get yours working up front.
8. Finish your story, let go even if it's not perfect. In an ideal world you have both, but move on. Do better next time.
9 . When you're stuck, make a list of what wouldn't happen next. Lots of times the material to get you unstuck will show up.
10. Pull apart the stories you like. What you like in them is a part of you; you've got to recognize it before you can use it.
11. Putting it on paper lets you start fixing it. If it stays in your head, a perfect idea, you'll never share it with anyone.
12. Discount the first thing that comes to mind—and the second, third, fourth and fifth. Get the obvious out of the way. Surprise yourself.
13. Give your characters opinions. Passive/malleable might seem likable to you as you write, but it's poison to the audience.
14. Why must you tell this story? What's the belief burning within you that your story feeds off of? That's the heart of it.
15. If you were your character, in this situation, how would you feel? Honesty lends credibility to unbelievable situations.
16. What are the stakes? Give us reason to root for the character. What happens if they don't succeed? Stack the odds against.
17. No work is ever wasted. If it's not working, let go and move on. It'll come back around to be useful later.
18. You have to know yourself: the difference between doing your best and fussing. Story is testing, not refining.
19. Coincidences to get characters into trouble are great; coincidences to get them out of it are cheating.
20. Exercise: Take the building blocks of a movie you dislike. How do you rearrange them into what you do like?
21. You must identify with your situation and/or characters; you can't just write "cool." What would make you act that way?
22. What's the essence of your story? The most economical telling of it? If you know that, you can build out from there.
A version of this article originally appeared on Aerogramme Writers’ Studio. Follow Aerogramme Writers on Twitter @A_WritersStudio.This story first ran on PR Daily in May 2013.

Story Images

Bren, Alina, and Magda are still in my head, and perhaps someday I will be able to take the various parts and create their story.  But for now, I only have a vague impression of their world. Every now and then, something brings them back to me, like these images, found here, which could easily come from their world.

NaNoWriMo 2013, Day 18: 507 words

Afterwards, a few things stood out to Bren when he thought back to the weeks leading up to his departure. The first was Magda's complete indifference to him. It might have been her occupation with her new role as clothier, but he wasn't sure.  Something seemed odd about it all--he saw her often enough, but she never looked directly at him, and she hardly spoke.  Instead, she rushed away.  He thought back again to the Gathering.  It seemed that he had seen her after the announcements--perhaps they had danced?  But he couldn't remember.  When he tried, his head started to pound again.

Overall, he was glad that she seemed not to pine over his impending departure.  Perhaps she had moved on from what had always been an unlikely crush--after all, he he was four years older, and had been in love with Alina since Magda was toddling around at her sister's heels.

Another thing that stood out was a dramatic shift in his work pattern.  Rather than staying busy gathering plants and mushrooms for various villagers--notably the healers--he was left idle much of the time.  There was always a change in work when the thirteens were confirmed in their occupations, but there was only one Gatherer in this season's apprentices--only one, to replace Bren.  Only select individuals or tradespeople solicited his services, though these seemed to pay quadruple the price that a mushroom generally fetched--even for the rarest ones; the tokens he received were those that would be most useful for a journey.  He would be able to buy dried meat and fruit, and have an entire wardrobe ordered before he left.  This, he did not do.  He bought food for the journey, but he had clothes to bring, and did not need more, since the reason for his departure was to seek labor away from the limits of his home, and inevitably to return as something other than what he was. When he returned, he would need a new wardrobe, perhaps.

Beyond a sac that he would require for carrying his supplies, he would need no cloth items.  So as he collected the coins that were of use to him, he used them to purchase, along with foods, medicines, bandages, and goods that were said to have value in the world--like wool, and small pieces of the rarer woods.  The rest of the clothier tokens, he would give to Alina.  She could use them to purchase her family’s supplies without having to do the labor that could be demanded in exchange for the tokens.  He would easily save her a week’s work—she could be selective in taking in work when she had a surplus of tokens.

When he was not gathering, he collected things for himself, as well, which no one would begrudge him since he was leaving.  He collected pieces of the ancient trees that had, over the years, turned to rock--those also were reputed to have value, although in the village they were worthless.

NaNoWriMo 2013, Day 13/14: 1,095 words

Magda glanced over to the high seat as Alina rose, joined Bren, and walked away from the council circle.

***

Like all of the thirteens, she was restless--ready for the festivities to begin.  She didn't have long to wait, now.  As Alina and Bren drew away, others began drawing nearer.  From the direction of the storyteller, a small group came out and stood around the fire.  The only time the storytelling stopped during the Gathering was when the announcements were made.  Seemingly, the time was at hand.

The storyteller stepped through the crowd and extended his hand to the Matriarch, who let him escort her to the opposite side of the fire.  His voice rose and fell over the assembly, reviewing the records--births, deaths, marriages--helping to make as well as record and recount the history of the village.  Finally, it was time for the names of the thirteens, who would now begin to practice a craft in a focused way.  Magda stepped forward into the applause as her name was called, and her list of skills:  "One of our most trusted errand-runners, accomplished gatherer and dye-maker, knowledgeable in the healing arts, embroidering prodigy."  Her face darkened as he continued to list those with similar accomplishments in her family--and not one was a healer, though there were gatherers.  And then, the applause.  She caught sight of Bren, then, in the crowd, his eyes on her, and the most extraordinary expression.  Of course, she thought.  He is to be married.  And she fervently wished that the wistfulness and pride were truly directed toward her.  With the others who were seventeen or older, Bren took a draught of heady elderberry wine after each name.  He drained his cup at her, and someone--Alina? she wondered--stepped forward to refill it.

Magda continued to listen politely while the other names were read, with their accomplishments.  Steppan beamed as his mother was named as head boulanger--his grandmother, several aunts, and two male cousins had shared that profession.  His grandfather had, late in life, taken a place as a healer.  His speciality had been gathering medicinal plants and fungi--much like Bren.  But her friend had not inherited that talent.

The list had several more members, and more than a few people were swaying--notably the young men.  The thirteens initiated the list of things that were to come in the next year--they were now practically adults, and could themselves start to look for marriage partners.  These they could arrange themselves, to take place any itme after they turned 17, but the match had to be approved by an elder, who would advise as to the potential successes of the unions.  Bren's grandmother had long suspected his attachment to Alina, and must have thought that the two were well-suited in order to approve the union so easily.  Magda pouted at the ground when their engagement was announced, but clapped along with the rest.  She knew it would happen. . .  and was likely as happy for them as she could be.  The girl looked up and shrugged a shoulder to herself as the storyteller's voice died away.  A high, clear note sounded, and the from the four corners of the crowd--almost into the forest--the open song rang out.  She pretended not to see Steppan approaching her--there would be time for him later--but dashed into the crowd.  Bren had disappeared from view, and the whirling of the flutes was getting faster.  Couples paired off, and skirts began to twirl in the dark.  Around the perimeter, high white torches brightened the faces of dancers.  She would find Bren before Alina, and claim the dance he had promised.

She found him at the very edge of the clearing, one hand leaning against a tree--and the other, fumbling at his pants.  She drew away a little as she saw this, and felt her face grow warm, but she realized almost immediately that it was all right--he straightened to turn back, reaching out for the tree when he felt the ground shift beneath him.

He felt her before he saw her, coming up behind him on the left.  She had slipped away from him earlier.  She put a tentative hand on his arm and he turned and grasped her, sliding his hands through her loose hair and closing his eyes as he drew her head toward his.

He was surprised by her warm, open mouth.  It remained open as he placed his on top, and she was rigid and frozen.  The elderberry wine that had filled--and dulled--his senses was replaced by a taste and a smell--of vanilla and lavendar.  Her lips were soft but firm on his, and he pressed harder, willing a reaction from her.  He  wrinkled his brow slightly, but he needed this, and she had clearly wanted him, too.  His tongue probed past her little sharp teeth, and met hers, which jumped slightly.  He looked at her then, and saw eyes, round and scared, close to his own.  He pulled away abruptly.

"By the Flame, Magda!"

The girl squealed, then, turned and ran back into the crowd.  He tried to follow, but caught himself on a root--or perhaps his own feet.  He head reeled and his stomach churned--he lowered his hands to his knees to steady himself, and didn't fall.  His breath came hard as he realized what he had done--damn, he had known that Alina had her hair up tonight.  But at the same time, he was badly affected--he closed his knees together somewhat tighter and tried to recover his breathing.  He ran his tongue over his lip--the feel of her was gone, but he tasted vanilla; the salt was his own.  But the lavender was in his nostrils.  It clung to his shirt.  He should have known--Alina never smelled of the dried lavendar--hers was a spicier smell of cinnamon and bay.  He did not know her taste.  He cursed himself again, but decided against running after the girl.  She would need to remain composed in the crowd.  Maybe she had rejoined her friends.  He would have time to apologize.  His head throbbed, then--and he remembered his injury from a few days before.  He wished she hadn't run off.  He swore again, and jumped at the sound of a soft voice behind him.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing."  She was taken aback by his tone.  "Well. . .  my head."

Alina gave him a look of pity and knelt by his side, leaning to kiss his brow.  Bren did not pull her closer, but closed his eyes to hide his confusion--and guilt.

But she would be all right--Magda would be all right.  Wouldn't she?  He wasn't so sure about himself.  

NaNoWriMo 2013, Day 12: 1155 words

She looked at the half-mushroom engraved on her token piece, and nodded.  He drew her to him then, and they slowly ambled through the oblivious crowd, moving closer to inevitability--and Bren's grandmother.

***

The old woman hadn't moved from her seat by the fire--the seat of honor.  Magda sat close watching the fire.  Alina wondered whether Magda's admiration for Bren wasn't simply an extension of her admiration for his grandmother, who was, indeed, an admirable woman.  She had, in her youth, been apprentice to the storyteller, and fell in love with her fellow-apprentice, who was two years older.  They had pledged to marry although it was forbidden, but the summer that she turned 16, the old storyteller died, and her beloved was chosen to replace him.  For a year, she was his apprentice, and helped him to assume the role for which he was chosen.  He had died several years ago, and she mourned for him as if he had, indeed, been her husband.

She married at 18 to the master carver, who was, himself, a prodigy.  He was fair-haired and ruddy-cheeked, and many believed that he was decended from a wild race from over the eastern sea.  In Bren, both his looks and his talent were reborn, and his grandmother demanded more from him in return.  She bore him seven sons, and meanwhile, studied healing.  She was forty when her husband fell ill, and she was able to ease his pain and keep him with her for longer than others with the same malady.  When he died, she would not remarry, but was welcomed as one of the healers.  As a healer, and one who had been a storyteller, she also taught the children of the village.  Her family home was converted to accommodate the ill in one wing, and a library and schoolroom in another.

For many years now, she had been an elder, and for several years, the oldest of the elders--the Matriarch.  Bren estimated that she was eighty-six years old.  She had seven sons, four of whom were still living, and from the 5 sons who had married, had 14 grand-sons.  It could have been argued that Bren was her favorite, but her favor and her scorn were often difficult to distinguish.

Except that she did seem to favor Magda--who, conspicuously, was a girl, and had talent.  Alina had no particular reason to be ingratiated to her or to fear her, so she was polite and mild, which was her way with most people.

Alina approached now with some apprehension.  The Presentation of the youth would begin soon, and after the announcement and welcoming, other announcements would be made, including weddings and engagements.  It was for Alina, now, to approach, and tell her of their arrangement.  Magda drew away as Alina approached, and the old woman looked up.  Her eyes were bright, and though her cheeks were soft and withered, her strength was still apparent in her bearing, and the line of her jaw.  Alina approached, and took the mushroom-shaped seat next to the high seat.

"My Mother."

"Child.  Do you have something to ask me?"

Alina glanced at Bren, standing a few feet behind her.  "I would like to be married, and I ask the blessing of the village on my arrangement."

The Matriarch's eyes twinkled, though her mouth remained grave--a trait she passed to her offspring, Alina had often noted.  "You are a clothier and  dye-master, are you not?"  Alina inclined her head.  "Then you are free to marry."  Alina nodded again.  The examination continued.  "And you ask the blessing of the community?"

"Yes."

The old woman looked thoughtful.  "Have you been married before?"

"No."

"Have any others claim to you?"

"No."

"Do you have any reason to believe that you might be with child?"

Alina blushed furiously, and nearly whispered, "No."

"It is not an indictment on you.  Will you stand by that answer?"

Alina lifted her head, and spoke proudly.  "Yes."

"Good girl.  Answer with pride!  Now... when will you marry?"

Alina shifted uncomfortably, and glanced to the ground.  "We cannot yet marry, but would like to be betrothed."

The white brows drew together.  "No?"  She lifted her head slightly, and saw her grandson.  Alina swallowed hard, but the lump threatened to choke her.  "Brencis.  Will you approach me?"

He stepped into the firelight at her bidding.    Alina pressed her lips together.

"Will you be betrothed to this young woman."

"It is my wish, grandmother."

"When will you marry her?"

"When I have something to offer to her."

The fire crackled behind them.  The old woman glowed orange in its light.  She pressed her fingertips together, and simply sat.  Alina looked between Bren and his grandmother.  He shifted from one foot to the other impatiently.  The old woman sat, staring past him to the fire.  Several minutes passed with only the barest hint of movement.  Finally, Alina broke the silence.

"I wish to be betrothed, Mother."

The steely gaze turned to her.  Her eyes did not twinkle.

"I cannot do this, child.  I cannot bind a woman of the community to a man who will not marry.  You know the stories."

Bren spoke quietly, but firmly.  "There is one way--if an elder will vouch for the man.  Will you vouch for me?"

She regarded him dispassionately.  "What assurance can you offer me of your return?  And how can I announce your betrothal and your departure in the same Gathering?  I can't--in part for her safety."  She gestured to Alina, who flinched.

"You must--for her safety."

"You should stay.  If you cared about her--if you cared about me--you would stay."

Bren shook his head.  Alina wondered to see him so determined.  She made a decision.  "You must permit this."  The old woman's brows raised.  "If you do not, I will go with him.  Then you will lose a gatherer and a clothier."

For a moment, the old woman looked amused, though she didn't betray it when she spoke.  "There will be more to replace you.  Your sister, for example."  Alina glanced to Magda, who had retreated a distance away, and now stood with Steppan and the other thirteens.  She was surprised to hear a cold, strong voice close to her ear.  "But I will grant this.  But you must try to persuade him to stay in the three weeks until his departure."

Alina turned to the woman, now, and kissed her withered hand.  She glanced at Bren, and he watched the tears trace paths down her cheeks.  He wanted to dissolve into the woods, or to become dust.  He was tired.  He was desolation.  He bowed low to his grandmother.

"Thank you."

"You have no reason to thank me.  Return, instead, to your intended.  You are hers.  But you have no claim on her.  If she chooses to marry while you are away, you must be content with another."

"Yes.  I know our laws."

"Then go.  And celebrate her.  You are both dismissed."

Magda glanced over to the high seat as Alina rose, joined Bren, and walked away from the council circle.

NaNoWriMo2013, Day 11: 1328 words

The song, Bren knew, was one from the first generation after the people settled, and was meant to establish the benefits of settled life as opposed to the nomadic--for he dies a horrible death, cold and alone.  It also serves as a warning to young men--for the love of a woman is a sacred trust, and should not be violated.

The story was one that always weighed on his heart, and even more now, as he sought Alina with his gifts.

***

As he stood brooding in the half-shadow, he felt a warm weight on his arm.  He turned, half-expecting to see Magda, but instead Alina's eyes shone up at him.  A secret smile played about her lips.

His breath caught at her beauty.  Unlike Magda, whose hair was mostly let down, hanging well past her shoulders with a braid at each temple--yes, he signed to himself, he had noticed--Alina's hair was wound in a crown around her head, leaving her neck and just the barest hint of her shoulder naked to the cool evening air.  He watched as his hand moved up toward Alina's bare neckline, then, without touching, traced the line of her neck.  Realizing suddenly what he was doing, he snatched his hand back and looked away.  Her grip on his arm tightened, and he felt her lean on him slightly.  They stood for a moment, close together, and Bren did not listen to the fate of the young man, alone and friendless in the world.  He forgot to hear how he was on the verge of starvation, taken and brutalized by pirates, and then sold as a slave.  He wouldn't have been surprised by the vultures picking at his entrails, but even as the chanting continued, his senses were full of the girl by his side, warm and sweet-smelling.  Then, she tugged on his arm, and drew him away, further into the shadow of the trees.  It was cooler here, away from the fire, and she was lightly clad.  A heat came off of her, though, as if she burned with her own inner fire.

Bren remembered the gifts he held, and noticed also that she clutched something tight in her left hand.  He looked down at her face again, and she dropped her eyes.  She handed him the item shyly.

"This is for you."  He took it with his free hand, and its length fell free.  He lifted it up, surprised by its weight.  Alina smiled as his mouth hung slightly open.  He felt a stinging in his eyes and blinked once--twice--and again.  He looked at the garment--a perfect, green wool traveling cloak--and then back at its maker, beaming in the near-darkness.  He realized that her gifts were still in his other hand, closed his mouth and swallowed.

"These--" his voice cracked, and he cleared his throat.  "These are for you."  She took the three objects that he handed her, and her face lost some of its joy as she saw what they were:  the carved portrait, the book, and the pen.  She looked at him, standing, the cloak in his two hands.  Her eyes were large and pleading.

"To. . . remember you by?"

He swallowed, and nodded.  "Well--no.  Not really."  He spoke definitively, and she looked curious, ad something else. . . impressed?  His confidence buoyed, he continued.  "I carved the portraits when I was confined to bed for three days.  I thought mostly of you."  She nodded and colored slightly.  "The book and the pen took me much longer.  They are of myself--my talents, if you will.  But I thought... That when I am gone, perhaps you will write--not just letters to me, but write of everything that happens.  That way, when I return, we can share what you have written, and I will know how it has been with you.  I don't want to leave you, my Alina."

Her eyes held a mixture of sadness and anger now, and when she answered, her tone was defiant.  "Then why do you have to leave?"  He started to answer, but she spoke over him.  "I know. . . mushrooms.  But. . .  You can do other things.  When you marry. . ."  She stopped short, but continued.  "When you marry you will have the chance to ask for a new vocation.  And every three years after that.  You know that as well as I!  And if I... if you were to have a daughter, then your grandmother would raise that child to be a leader and a healer!  You could give her that!"

It was a weak appeal, and she knew it, but he stared at her for a moment, and gathering up the cloak, suddenly dropped to his knees.  For a moment, he buried his face in the cloak, then lifted it, his eyes unnaturally bright.

"Then. . . you have chosen me?"

She laughed, then.  "Of course, you ninnyhammer.  What did you think?"  She was thoughtful for a moment, then offered her hand.  They were mostly covered in the dim light, but she suspected that they had been seen by one of the passing shadows.  He grasped it, and rose.  The cloak dropped again, almost to the ground.  "Will you try it on?"

He let go of her hand reluctantly, touching her fingertips as long as possible.  Then, he swept the dark cloak over his shoulder and pulled the hood over his fair hair.  He seemed to disappear into the night, except for his ruddy cheeks and his full lips.  Alina stepped forward, then, and into his arms.  He held her close, and her lips pressed against his own.  Her kiss was firm and soft, and he breathed in her breath as he held perfectly still, wondering what he could--what he should--do.  As he parted his lips slightly, she pulled ever so slightly back, and then rested back onto her heels.  His breath seemed caught in short gasps.

"Will you stay?  We can be married tonight.  My mother approves. . ."

Bren gripped her with one arm, looking pained.  For a moment, he wavered.  Then his foot hit something soft.  He looked down.  The mushroom was large and brown, and would have been sliced and sautéed, and eaten with bread and perhaps cheese.  He brought his foot down on it, hard.  Alina squeaked, then clapped her hand on her mouth.

"I can't.  You know that.  I cannot be a whole man with you. . ."

She swallowed hard, and looked scared.  In a very small voice, she pleaded.  "Are you sure?  You. . . could try. . . You could try. . . tonight."

Bren moved closer, then, and pressed her gently against a tree.  She could feel him--the whole length of him--and was aware of how he wanted her.  For a moment she hoped--feared--that she had won.  Then, he relaxed, and drew away.  Part of her felt relief, and then shame at her lack of conviction.  He turned his back to her and stood, face deep within the cloak.  She hesitated, still leaning on the tree.  And she knew.  Finally, he spoke.

"Is it a traveling cloak, or a wedding cloak?"

"It is a traveling cloak."

Her voice was thick, and he knew that it was with the greatest effort that she avoided tears.  Good, he thought.  It was the same for him.

"Then. . . I'm afraid I must go.  I will be a better man for you when I return."

"If you return."  She whispered into the night.  Then, she spoke more clearly.  "If you will go. . .  You must make your promise to me.  Tonight."

"That, I will do.  And I will return to marry you, Alina.  And will you promise?  Will you wait for me?  Even though you're not truly bound once I leave?"

"I will always wait for you.  No matter what happens.  I am yours."

"And I am yours, my love."  He drew a token and his knife from the pouch at his waist, and sliced the token cleanly in two so that the metal core was visible between the layers of wax.  He handed one to Alina, and kept the other.  "Keep this, and we will know each other when I return."

She looked at the half-mushroom engraved on her token piece, and nodded.  He drew her to him then, and they slowly ambled through the oblivious crowd, moving closer to inevitability--and Bren's grandmother.