"I love her for what she has dared to be, for her hardness, her cruelty, her egoism, her perverseness, her demoniac destructiveness. She would crush me to ashes without hesitation. She is a personality created to the limit. I worship her courage to hurt, and I am willing to be sacrificed to it. She will add the sum of me to her"--- Anais Nin, Henry And June

14 février 1803
Roma, Italie

Dearest Journal-Friend,

As time goes on, I am learning more and more. I know it is only a matter of months before I can no longer put off taking a new husband. As it is in so many things, even here in Roma, politics trumps religion and the old-fashioned ways of widows and orphans dressing in black and keeping quiet company until a year has passed is outdated. Now, after six months, it is seen as a duty to one's God and country to remarry after six months of mourning have passed.

I worried I should not be considered desirable anymore, especially in this place. It is not only on account of what I now am but who I was, and ever shall be. The explanation of who I am and why I have come to Roma entreating exile is simple. All know of what has happened in France, and when I spoke of being presumed dead with my brother, the response was not what I imagined it to be. A kind old Cardinale advised me perhaps it was better not to correct that assumption, at least for now. It would remain a secret among those of the highest rank and importance here. It is something that increases esteem in their eyes in this city. As it turns out, a French Roman Catholic woman with money, a title, and no family is potentially of great use indeed. Lucretia is already working very hard to introduce me to suitable matches when the time comes, and now the Cardinale watching over me has such concerns for me as well. 

With the Royal Family in exile throughout Europe, not many were attracted to the austere and pious world of Roma, which many just pronounce as "Rome". It is a strange world. I was attracted specifically for this, for the fact I should not be known here. I need no questions about Firenze and why I fled, and the death of Michel was nothing of note. The stories say I died as well, although no body was found. We are simply more of the enemy to rid themselves up. Inwardly, I refuse to relinquish my titles, to call myself Citoyen Eleonore Vigneron, or simply Madame Eleni. 

I shall protect my birthright, as so many in exile believe they are honour-bound to protect their own. In the meanwhile, a man called Bonaparte wreaks havoc upon France and now has turned an eye to other countries. With the monarchy and supporters of France's aristocracy all dead or exiled or having renounced themselves, Napoleon Bonaparte is turning his attention toward other places. The Pope and the religious order and ties to nobility in Italie have caused much attention, and it is a battle that is being lost. Those here hate this man Napoleon Bonaparte, more tyrant than any king ever has been, and look to build alliances with the survivors of the Courts of our dearly departed Roi Louis, and his grandfather before him. 

Even as the Italians are being torn down, they plot to rise, much as every exiled Frenchman does. When I noted with no small measure of haughtiness that I should not marry beneath my station as I still fancied a return to my life one day, both Lucretia and the Cardinale assured me this was not a problem. The country has many Ducs and they wish to do whatever necessary to make me the best match, rather than risk marrying up and into a royal family of another country---particularly if they should be Protestants. 

Women have not much power here, at least not as they did in Versailles or even Firenze. We never have much power, and yet currying favour and existing as a bargaining chip is a great sort of power. The women must always seem disinterested in politics, and yet secretly knowledgeable. Lucretia giggles and gossips as if her matchmaking is a woman's fancy, a way to reignite warmth within a widow whose bed has turned cold in the necessary solitude. In reality, it is the perfect cover for political strategy. 

I am given mostly anything I desire, so long as my request includes a desire to serve God or to acclimate to my new country. The men find me amiable if haughty, and this suits me just fine. Since I cannot set foot in the Church and this draws suspicion, a private area was added to my suite of rooms for the purpose. It was met with great pleasure when I said I preferred to speak to my Creator in private, without elaborate surroundings and in the humility women may only show when alone and unconcerned with appearance. It is strange, how I seem to know the right thing to say to please others and get what I wish.

Lucretia says this is called "diplomacy", and it is a natural-borne gift with me. 

She knows much about the world and has taught me a good many things both about this world and the one I inhabit as an immortal. I do not know what trouble I should have caused myself without her. I know I was meant to stay with my Sire and learn for a year, and bond, and perhaps connect in the way for which he created me. Since I could not accept this, I am blessed for Lucretia. She looks at me as if I am everything: a sister, a daughter, a lover, a confidante, a pupil, all in one body. 

Lucretia tells me I am exquisite, and though black is a punishment for most, it only enhances my beauty. She says I shall break many hearts, and jokingly causes me The Black Widow. I asked her why, as all widows dress in black. She simply answered not all were venomous and created in the hourglass shape meant to devour mates. I think she does not know I did not turn cold when I was turned. Instead, when I embraced new life, I felt more than I had in so long. They say I am without a soul now, but I do not feel this. 

I have learned all these little tricks, such as how to turn my small fortune into a large one. Lucretia has explained that because of war and politics, the value of currency changes, but jewels are a universal currency. She has told me to always protect things of sentimental and personal value, jewels, art, and anything of which there is only one. She also taught me to never part with my wardrobe, as in hundreds of years, the gown I wear today may be seen as a masterpiece. 

I highly doubt that. 

Yet, I have been taking her advice, parting with things I do not need but those here are happy to purchase. Relics of a world forgotten are treasures of martyrs to those here, and women shall pay dearly for a jeweled comb that may have belonged to Madame du Barry. or men for an ugly statue made by a man whose head was taken. I shall part with some things, but never others. Each day, my fortune grows steadily and meanwhile, I want for nothing. 

 I have learned it is important to underestimate my value and hide a good deal of my fortune when I marry, as it is the only way to stay independent. Financial independence in women has no place here, nor often in men, either. It is often encouraged that much is given to the Church and even those with the most prestigious of titles live in humility. 

Humility has never been my strong suit, and I certainly do not intend on poverty, chastity, or obedience to anyone. I kept myself my own woman the day I refused the man who gave me rebirth, and though appearances must be kept, I shall not take anything that is a step backward from such a choice. 

If fate is kind, we all shall rise again, and no tyrant, no husband, no religion shall tell me I haven't a right to respect and power. 

The winds of change are always in motion. Now, they guide me toward the next step in my journey. I still wish my new husband to be somewhat young, and kind. 

Your ever-beloved and proudly sensible, 

Eleni

With a population of just under nine thousand people, Aubrey Parish had always been a tiny little dot on the map. Yet, somehow, the population stayed consistent throughout the decades. A quiet little place largely made up of poor families without the resources to leave, people who had simply always been there and didn't know where else to go,  and people who had never been there and knew it was a place no one would ever go looking, it was an unusual place to live. The cycle of people coming and going from the Parish seemed perfectly balanced. It was almost perfectly choreographed, like an overcrowded dance club that wouldn't let the next person in until a previous occupant departed.

Lately, the balance of Aubrey Parish had been disturbed. The rains were harder and more frequent than usual, and the waters were rising. New arrivals from New Orleans, Jackson, and Baton Rouge were stretching the Parish's housing demands. Somehow, word of the Parish's existence spread as far North as New York City, grabbing the attention of people like Dino. The kind of people who were coming in weren't poor country bumpkins, but the kind who needed jobs and housing. Aubrey wasn't set up with an overabundance of either.

It was the city planner, Ambrose Draesia, who came up with a solution. Money was money and if the Parish had people coming in who could afford to rent cottages instead of hotel rooms, everyone would benefit. As he explained, most of the visitors would rent for six months or so before getting on their way. The cottages could be cleaned and rented to the next person. Those who ended up becoming permanent residents could buy the cottage and surrounding land if they wanted.

The Mayor was pleased as could be with Ambrose's plan, and construction of five small cottages on the both the East and West sides of the city began. The houses were constructed at the very edge of the Parish, past the existing city. The way Ambrose looked at it, if being surrounded by water was a limit to how far the Parish could expand, why not give residents the feeling of a beachfront community?

Though the Parish wasn't small enough to be the sort of place where everyone knew the comings and goings of everyone else, a new arrival hopping out of an automobile at the "Welcome" sign always attracted attention. This was especially the case if the new arrival was good-looking and just a little strange. That's why it only made sense that the day of Victor Zenkova's death was the one a rusty, dirtied pickup truck brought Lala Bellerose to the Parish.

Contrary to what her name suggested, Lala wasn't your typical Southern belle. Born Helena Mercy Bellerose to a traveling family somewhere in Mississippi, she was an attractive Romani woman of twenty-six. Since childhood, no one had called her anything but Lala, largely due to the way she wandered through life with her head in the clouds. Lala was a dreamer, though few ever knew what she dreamed.

She did little to hide her exotic heritage, dressing in flowing skirts that often jingled as she walked, simple tank tops often covered with a sweater when it was cold, and sandals decorated with coloured plastic stones. In an era where women spent ages cutting, dying, and adding layers of adornment to their hair, Lala had simple chestnut waves that fell to the middle of her back. A few thin braids among the thick strands completed the look, usually with small crystals attached. She always said they were for good luck and prosperity, and she could use both.

Lala never bothered much with makeup, though she would run an almost obligatory sweep of a pastel colour across her eyelids and a dot of pale pink lip gloss. She'd gotten her whole beauty regimen down to under two minutes. Her one concession to vanity was a dab of concealer on each cheek, covering freckles that were almost white against her tanned skin. Though it was 2015, Lala made people believe it was still 1969, except for the small diamond stud that glistened from the side of her nose. Attractive enough, but largely unaware there was a world outside of the one she inhabited in her own head, Lala was a strange creature.

It had been two weeks prior when Lala broke down and finally sent a message to her sister, Iona.

"Is there room for me where you live?"

Iona Bellerose, opposite of her sister to the extent it was difficult to tell the two were related, had come to the Parish nearly three years prior. It was a day trip that turned into a longer visit. Iona was immediately in love with the spirit and the energy of Aubrey Parish. Raised in the Romani tradition of it taking a village to raise a child or to do anything else, the quiet small town was a reprieve for Iona. This was a fact she didn't hesitate to write in her e-mails to Lala. Now thirty, Iona was the editor-in-chief at the Parish Chronicle. Responsible and driven, Iona was the one who saw something special in the bubbly Alisaundra and had offered her a job with the paper. When Ali mentioned settling down in a house and needing a roommate, Iona reached out to Lala for maybe the tenth time.

The reply from Lala was a surprising one. Every other time, Iona had received excuses and flat-out refusals regarding why her younger sister couldn't come to visit. Lala certainly wouldn't entertain the idea of moving. She liked living in a big family kind of way. After Iona reassured her sister there was room and a nice girl who needed a roommate, the message that came back had a hint of resignation in its tone.

"Why not? Don't have anything much going right now. The familia is growing big and crowded. Working for a newspaper would suck, though. Boring. Who even reads newspapers?"

That was the closest thing to a polite acceptance of Iona's help that Lala would ever send. Iona just shook her head when she told Ali she found her a roommate, at least on a trial basis. Maybe the odd couple would balance each other out somehow.

As progressive as Iona was, that's how set in tradition and the old ways of doing things Lala happened to be. Their mother had gotten through to Lala in a way that she hadn't with her older daughter. Iona had been more determined to get out of life in Mississippi, to go to college, to pursue a life beyond her heritage. For as long as anyone in the family could remember, Iona vocally proclaimed she wouldn't live life on a series of dirt roads with screaming brats and and men constantly grabbing at her, trying to make more. She was going to make something of herself, make sure the family name would be remembered with some dignity.

With that, Iona packed her bags and headed to the University Of Mississippi, a good school that had offered her a scholarship. It didn't take long before she'd gotten a makeover and buried herself in books, leaving her unique heritage far behind. Instead of embracing her family's wild and lawless world, she'd pledged a sorority. Iona had become a pretty bottled blonde with pearls and a bit too much seriousness about her nature. She'd happily sacrificed everything strange and dark about herself to the altar of conformity. It brought her a welcome sense of peace.

After graduation, she simply never left the bustling college town of Oxford. Iona kept on excelling within the confines of her quiet, respectable life. She was intelligent, but more than that, there was a sharpness about the way she saw the world. No one was a bit surprised when she finished her doctorate and headed off to teach at the equally respectable Tulane University, although there wasn't anyone to cheer for her either. The introverted blonde preferred books to people, and her achievements came at the cost of personal relationships. Even friendships were rare for Iona. She didn't mind a bit. The first half of her life had been filled with people. She treasured the solitude.

It was a spontaneous day trip that had taken her out driving on the day everything changed. The moment she came across a town that prided itself on being hidden from the world, Iona Bellerose didn't have much desire to go back to her life. There was something right about life in the Parish that suited the quiet and austere side of Iona. She'd never had any desire for marriage or children or most of the distractions of the world. If she was honest with herself, she didn't even want to be a professor. Iona just liked learning. She didn't want to be responsible for getting others to like what she liked or convince unfocused young people like her sister to listen to her.

Within a week, Iona Bellerose had resigned her position as a professor of English Literature. Instead, she became the editor-in-chief of the local paper, sent out to the town of nine thousand people twice daily. The tired old man who formerly took care of the paper had once loved it. As he got older, it became a burden. Giving it to Iona made him look truly happy. It was the most spontaneous decision Iona had ever made, but there was no looking back.

Iona had written all of this in almost daily e-mail updates to Lala. She knew it was unreliable but her daily contact with Lala was the only link Iona had to her family. In their eyes, she was a traitor, a self-centred princess who put her own needs above everyone's. Iona knew what they thought, and it hurt in a way that didn't inspire regret.  The only thing she could do now was try to maintain a relationship with Lala.

Sometimes her sister would have a phone, sometimes she wouldn't. There wasn't much more she could do to find Lala, though. Iona wrote fondly and descriptively of the life and people in Aubrey Parish, begging her sister to break away from the kind of life that was all she'd known and start over. Lala was still young, and it wasn't too late for her to have something better.

No matter what Iona wrote, though, Lala would never leave her family. The year before Lala left, her mother died as unremarkably as she'd lived, never knowing a thing about the heart attack that caused her to drop dead in the kitchen. It was three hours before anyone found her, too late for help. It wouldn't have mattered anyway.

Sometimes, Death came swiftly.

Lala was only fifteen when her sister left home. Even though she was certainly rebellious enough to sneak out and explore the world with her sister, it was more of a daydream for the young girl. It wasn't the life for her. Lala was going to stay in camp. It was safer there, in her opinion, and she'd be surrounded by familia. It mattered to her, the sense of belonging. She liked the way everyone shared everything. No one was ever alone.

As Lala got older, life with the familia wasn't as safe. There was a darker side to their way of life that children didn't see. It wasn't only money and possessions and dwellings that were shared. The night Lala's boyfriend sent her home with a case of beer and another man, explaining he'd lost a bet in a poker game, she was finally ready to break free. She lived in a world where everything had a price and was up for grabs. Lala didn't want to be a thing. She wondered if Iona had known all along how things were. It made her resent her sister slightly less.

Lala had taken the time to reapply the usual camouflaging makeup covering her white freckles before hurriedly packing a bag for Aubrey Parish. She wasn't really sure where she'd be staying when she got there. The whole idea of staying with someone she didn't know was foreign to her and she had a hard time believing people would live in close quarters with total strangers. She wasn't prepared to stay with her sister just yet, either. and Iona hadn't offered. It was an idea that made the younger woman feel trapped and angry. Lala didn't want to live like the familia her whole life, but she didn't want to be like Iona either.

Pausing before she stuffed her bag to maximum capacity and headed out, she sent Iona a text, then hitched a ride with the next truck going towards Aubrey Parish. As a relatively unremarkable Southern girl, she was able to navigate the streets and the towns without suspicion or being accosted too often. She looked trustworthy enough for those willing to pick up hitchhikers, the kind of girl who'd share a joint and some laughs on the road and didn't bother wearing a bra.

It took Lala almost two weeks to get to the Parish, but she wasn't in any big hurry. It would be there even if she was late  It was a little fortuitous that Lala was so unpredictable. She'd managed to arrive safely and in one piece on the same day trucks littered the city, moving people into their new homes. The torrent of rain and the crowd gathered at the Red Question slowed down the progress. By the time Lala arrived and jumped out of the truck, bag slung over her shoulder and an indifferent wave, it was dying down to a steady drizzle. Lala didn't mind. She popped open a small umbrella and moved her way through the unfamiliar pattern of streets.

On any other day, the arrival of Lala Bellerose would have been the source of gossip and greetings. On that day, she was just another figure beneath a black umbrella. Finally, she made it to the edge of the city, seeing five houses by the waterfront. They looked almost like beach cottages, each one a small two-story structure with French doors that opened to let in the breeze from the water and a small porch for sitting in a chair and doing whatever people did. Lala thinks the cottages are pretty, if simple. Checking the numbers on the doors with the one on her phone screen, she raised her hand and knocked when she got to 214 Ivy Lane. It was an odd name for a new street. Ivy couldn't grow on the waterfront if it tried.

By the time Lala found the small cottage, Scott Feila had been hard at work for a few hours. He passed by the scene at the Red Question, almost moving by with a small shrug. Standing around to get gossip about a guy who got himself killed seemed pointless, especially when he didn't even know the guy.

Scott had greeted the day early, tossing around the bed completely naked with a bottle of Jack Daniels on the nightstand. He looked like he hadn't slept a wink, though the unresponsive blonde figure next to him slept like a log. He took a few swigs from the bottle, and tried to reposition Alisaundra. If he could just convince her to wake up, she'd be happy enough to help him combat some of the tension and restlessness that kept him awake. She always was. It was way too tempting to not care if she was awake or not. Trying hard to be the good guy for once,  he'd instead throw on some clothes and head to Ali's new place to help make it a little more inviting.

With his strong tattooed arms and trusty bottle, Scott finds the physical labour enjoyable. He is not a refined man and he enjoys work where he doesn't have to pretend to be. It was a different kind of outlet for his energies, if not the one he'd have preferred. He feels slightly pleased with himself for doing something nice for Ali. He knows the girl is in love with him, in that way girls her age tend to unwisely throw themselves heart-first at every relationship. Scott doesn't love Ali, but she's fun and intelligent and never says no to anything that will make him happy. It makes him want her to be happy too, a strange sentiment from a man who will honestly describe himself as too self-absorbed to be a good friend, lover, or anything else. Scott knows one day, he will break Ali's heart.

It doesn't have to be today, though, so he builds shelves on the walls and a wooden frame for a bed with a bookshelf as the headboard. He begins to install a desk for her to work, before calling the furniture store to order two queen sized beds and a box of hangers for clothing. He figures she's at least got the essentials. She can do whatever it is girls do to make places pretty. They always end up doing a better job than he could. Ali isn't the first woman to try to appeal to Scott's domestic side. She is the first to inspire him to do household chores in order to please her.

The place is cute, he thinks to himself. Small, but cute. The downstairs consists of a large, well-lit living room, with stairs leading to a second floor that's almost a "U" shape. There were only three rooms up there: a bedroom, a bathroom, and a third room Ali had mentioned would be for her roommate. Scott had been relieved when Ali told him someone at work had helped her find a roommate. It meant she couldn't start suggesting they live together. The house was too small, and Scott is happy at the hotel. Commitment isn't his thing, and checking out the people who'd come and go constantly interests him.

I wonder if the roommate's pretty. Scott's mind wanders as he builds a desk in Ali's room reminiscent of IKEA, a useful furniture store that has no Aubrey Parish location. Never mind. It's going to make life harder on me if I notice one way or the other. Scott sighs to himself, already feeling slightly trapped by the enthusiastic blonde woman he left back at the hotel . He always sees Ali as clingy in that adorable way nineteen year-old girls are. It is sweet she was like that.  He just didn't want a wife or a daughter, and with her, he feels like he's gotten both. Scott didn't think that in the disturbing way, of course, needing to mentally clarify that as if someone hears his thoughts. It's just that she is really young. She tends to act like she looks up to him, and he is the last person anyone should admire.

Scott has no idea how he is going to handle the Ali situation, so he decides to focus on building her house into a place she'll be happy in even after he's gone. He'd gotten a little carried away and constructed a frame for the bed and a similar desk in the roommate's space. Whoever the girl was, it didn't sound like she was traveling with too much, so Scott figures he's helping her out.

When he'd asked Ali who the girl was, she had said it was her editor's sister and Ali liked that the girl sounded "boho-chic". Scott has no idea what "boho-chic" is, but he figures the girl is another writer and she'd need a bed and a desk the way Ali did. Both rooms now had bed frames, mattresses, desks, and shelves on the walls. Well, almost. Scott is still furiously hammering away at the last pieces of Alisaundra's future desk.

I hope these girls have some shit to move into their place or I'm going to have to take them shopping. There's an internal groan as Scott wipes a few beads of sweat from his forehead. It is  a legitimate worry. He's convinced neither one of them is really the kind of person who'd consider a house needs furniture and linens and pots and pans. He doesn't blame them. He likes the hotel because he doesn't have to worry about all of that.

At the ripe old age of thirty-seven, Scott Feila is finally building furniture for a girlfriend's house, a picture of future domestic bliss. He knows if he's not careful, it won't be long before he's building a crib for a nursery in a house of their own. Fuck. No.

He didn't sign up for any of this, but he strangely hasn't gone running yet. Scott has done more for Ali than for any girl he can remember passing through his life. He has no idea why, because he doesn't love her. He likes her a decent amount and they have fun together. He wishes that were good enough, but he is aware he doesn't feel for her in the way she cares about him. That inequality never works.

I wish she'd kept living with Eleni. Things would be different with Eleni around. He makes an audible sound of annoyance and hammers the final desk piece a bit harder than necessary. Scott didn't want to think about Eleni. He thinks about Eleni too much as it is, usually at the most inopportune of moments. It isn't as if he can just ask the woman out on a date. He couldn't have done so even if he didn't have Ali hovering over him every time he spoke to Eleni. Scott does the right thing and represses his feelings with booze and denial. Alisaundra needs him in a way Eleni never would, and he knows this perfectly well. He doesn't know which he prefers.

He both loves and hates thinking of Eleni. It infuriates him that the raven-haired woman acts like she doesn't even remember him. He'd vividly kept her in the back of his mind for years. Knowing Eleni isn't the sort of thing most people easily forget, and he did know her. He'd been in her house, slept in her bed, kept her secrets. The more he thinks about Eleni, the more desire and anger mix together. Fuck her for pretending I'm no one.

The classy widow didn't belong in Aubrey Parish. Scott honestly had no clue why she was there, but he wasn't entirely shocked to see her. He didn't ask and doubted she'd tell him the truth if he did. There were a lot of rumours about Eleni and her husband floating around New Orleans, and they'd been circulating around the time he'd gotten out of town. Like all rumours, Scott assumes there's half-truth to all of them. It would have been better if she'd just continued to live her life in New Orleans, and never set foot in a place like the Parish that was so clearly not for her. Running just made her look guilty, even if she wasn't.

Nevertheless, Eleni had ended up here and there was no changing that. As soon as Scott heard Eleni was moving out of the hotel at the same time as Alisaundra, he knew exactly what had to be done. It was easier than he'd thought, a few well-placed calls and favours.

It is the real reason he'd come all the way to the other side of the Parish before breakfast and built furniture and had beds delivered. It is the motivation to play Mr. Fix-It for two young girls who were going to be more trouble than they were worth. Scott wants to be there in person, just to make sure everything works out the way it should.

Scott breathes a sigh of relief when a truck with a few men pulls up to the house next door. Putting down the hammer, he takes a few swigs from the bottle, finishing it off before pulling another from his bag. It's admittedly creepy that he's watching a moving van from the window. None of the houses have blinds or curtains pre-installed, and he smiles at noticing how much of the house next door he can see.

When the movers start carefully carrying a baby grand piano through the rain, he laughs aloud. I guess some people know houses need furniture. The smirk dances across his face before he lets it go. Of course she'd brought her own furniture, because she knew it wasn't a short-term visit. Anyone who arrives in a new place with a piano has business there.

It had been a decade since they'd met, but he knows she hasn't forgotten him. The little fantasy he likes to indulge from time to time, that she'd come here for him, is a sad one. Scott knows there's no truth to it. He still likes to think it's so. The idea that she needs him is appealing, although he knows he wouldn't want her the way he does if she were like Ali.

It's hard to hurt Ali. Things are different when Eleni is around. Maybe it will all work out for the best. Scott is taking too many swigs from the bottle already. His head spins wildly with all the thoughts.

It is a pathetic justification for stalking a woman far out of his league, but he is willing to start playing house with a naive young girl if it keeps him close. That's why it seemed perfectly ethical and practical when Scott Feila paid Ambrose Draesia handsomely to ensure Eleni's new home would be right beside Ali's. He needed to at least feel Eleni was somewhere close to him.

It is only the knock at the door that tears his eyes from the cottage next door. Scott sets down his bottle and hurries to the front door. He smiles when he sees a dark-haired woman at the door. It fades a bit when he notices she is every bit the opposite of the one he had been hoping to see, but he tries to keep the disappointment from showing. 

There is no way Scott Feila could have planned on Lala Bellerose sweeping into town that day, turning his perfect plan into chaos. She is the thing none of them ever saw coming, the winds that warned them all of the impending storm.