A Midsummer Night's Scene, Chapter 2
Rating: 🍦 | Maddox lounged in his chair with deceptive casualness, his long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. The very picture of American nonchalance, if not for the predatory gleam...
Foxi’s Fancies: A Midsummer Night’s Scene
Copyright © 2025 Linn Rhinehart - All rights reserved
NSFW: Content warnings
Chapter Two
The sound of voices grew louder as we approached the courtyard. Judging by Anna’s barely suppressed snort of laughter, things had escalated considerably after my escape to the greenhouse.
“…an absolutely preposterous notion that linguistic evolution somehow diminishes the power of the original metaphor!”
Steph’s voice carried across the flagstones, pitched in that particular tone she’d use when she was absolutely convinced she was right and everyone else deliberately obtuse.
“But that’s exactly my point,” came Maddox’s drawl, slower than usual, which meant he’d had at least three glasses of wine and was settling in for a proper academic brawl. “The power lies in understanding what the poet actually meant, not what centuries of mistranslation have led us to believe he meant.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I muttered, but Anna just laughed.
“Guess they’ve moved on from Menander,” she whispered as we rounded the corner. “Now they’re arguing about whether poetry loses meaning in translation?”
I’ll admit the scene that greeted us was delightfully chaotic. The long wooden table in the centre of the courtyard looked like the remnant of an unusually civilised apocalypse. Empty wine bottles stood sentinel between scattered books. Someone had apparently needed to consult multiple dictionaries—Gianna, by the look of the Italian-English tome by her elbow—and Linn had her laptop out, no doubt fact-checking everyone’s claims with the editor’s ruthless precision.
Steph stood beside the ancient apple tree, gesticulating wildly with what appeared to be the mangled remains of a strawberry tart. Her blonde hair had escaped its careful chignon and she looked every inch the passionate academic she was before she chucked it all aside to write bodice-rippers.
Maddox lounged in his chair with deceptive casualness, his long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. The very picture of American nonchalance, if not for the predatory gleam in his eyes that suggested he was thoroughly enjoying himself. Romance writers, I’d come to believe, were absolutely vicious when it came to debating the ins and outs of storytelling.
Gianna sat curled up like a cat in her oversized garden chair, her dark hair shimmering as the fairy lights swayed overhead. Every so often she muttered something in rapid Italian that made Linn chuckle, though whether she was translating the argument or providing her own commentary, I couldn’t tell.
“…and furthermore,” Steph continued, pointing her pastry at Maddox like a weapon, “to suggest that Dante loses his essence in English translation is to ignore the transcendent power of—”
“Sweet baby Jesus! Why are we still talking about dead poets?” Gianna cut in, throwing her hands up in theatrical despair. “Linn, cara, tell them about the reviewer who said my dialogue ‘lost something in the translation from Italian passion to English propriety.’ I nearly threw my laptop out the window.”
“Yeah, that was a particularly stupid review,” Linn agreed, not looking up from her screen. She sat in her usual spot—close enough to the action to moderate if needed, far enough away to maintain her role as the family’s voice of reason. “Though not quite as stupid as the one that claimed Steph’s characters ‘spoke like they’d swallowed a thesaurus.’”
“Oi!” Steph protested. “My characters have extensive vocabularies because they’re educated people living in an era when education actually meant something!”
“Unlike now, when we just argue about dead Greeks and Romans over dinner?” Maddox said with a grin clearly designed to wind her up further.
Anna cleared her throat as we approached. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I present the Queen of the Greenhouse, returned from her royal contemplations.”
All eyes turned to us, and I felt that familiar flutter of being the centre of attention. Not unpleasant, exactly. Just a bit overwhelming in this particular crowd.
“Foxy!” Gianna practically bounced in her chair. “Perfect timing. Come, tell these two imbeciles that passion can break any language barrier.”
“Not a chance.” I grinned. “I’m not getting in the middle of an intellectual bloodbath.” I slid off Anna’s lap, claiming my usual spot on the bench next to Linn’s wheelchair. “Besides, it sounds like you were all doing perfectly fine without me.”
“Coward,” Maddox teased, but his smile was warm. “Though I suppose I can’t blame you for avoiding the carnage. Steph’s been brutal tonight.”
“Brutal?” she huffed, finally abandoning her post by the apple tree to flop back into her chair. “I’ve been correct. There’s a difference.”
“In your humble opinion,” Linn murmured, which earned her a withering look.
“Facts are not opinions. Dante’s Inferno—”
“Is magnificent in any language,” I said, before they could start another round. “But can we please save the literary criticism for tomorrow? It’s Midsummer, the night is gorgeous, and I’ve been reliably informed Maddox came bearing cake.”
“Cake!” Anna perked up immediately. “Yes, please. All the literary sparring has made me hungry again.”
Maddox pushed himself up from his chair with exaggerated effort. “Right then. A super-sized Swedish princess cake coming up, as requested by our gracious hostess.” He disappeared into the house, leaving the rest of us in that peculiar calm that sometimes follows a really good argument.
“You alright, hun?” Linn asked quietly, nudging my shoulder. “You were gone for ages.”
“Just needed some air,” I said, which was true enough. “Got a bit overwhelmed with all you clever clogs showing off.”
“We weren’t showing off,” Steph protested, though her cheeks flushed slightly. “We were having a stimulating intellectual discussion.”
“You were having a row about whether poetry survives translation waving pastry around like a murder weapon,” Gianna quipped. “Which, to be fair, is precisely the sort of ridiculous argument I’d expect from a bunch of literary pirates.”
“Literary pirates?” Anna laughed. “I rather like that. We should get it printed on t-shirts.”
“Or flags,” I suggested, feeling my mood lift as the familiar warmth of being surrounded by our chosen family settled around me. “Every pirate crew worth its salt needs a flag.”
“What would ours look like?” Linn wondered aloud. “A skull and crossbones clutching a quill?”
“No, a laptop,” Gianna said. “Much more terrifying to traditional publishers.”
“How about a laptop surrounded by books?” Steph added, freshly recovered from her academic fervour and ready to join in the silliness. “And maybe some knickers hanging off the side, since that’s apparently what my literature degrees qualify me to sell.”
“Hey,” Anna said firmly. “You sell beautiful, well-made lingerie that makes women feel gorgeous. There’s no shame in that.”
“That’s true,” Steph said with a smile. “And I’m actually quite proud of it. It’s just funny how life turns out, isn’t it? None of us doing what we thought we’d be doing at this point in our lives.”
“Speak for yourself,” Maddox called from the kitchen doorway, as he emerged with an enormous layered cake, both elegant and over the top. “I always knew I’d end up writing erotic romance, but I didn’t expect to be doing it surrounded by brilliantly chaotic women while—”
“arguing about ancient poetry and the semantics of time over dinner,” I filled in. “Don’t sell yourself short on the pretentious academic bollocks front.”
“Says the woman who just used ‘semantics’ correctly in a sentence,” Anna pointed out, grinning at me.
“Oh, piss off you,” I said, but I was grinning, too.
Maddox set the cake down in the centre of the table. I guess you could say it was an aspirational princess cake: layers of sponge, cream, custard, and raspberry conserve, all cloaked in bright green marzipan and topped with delicate sugar roses and a cheeky cake gel design. The sort of thing that belonged in a fairy tale, which seemed fitting for Midsummer.
“Right,” he said, settling back into his chair and giving us all a look that spelled trouble. “Before we dig into this masterpiece of mine, I have one question.”
“Oh, here we go,” Linn muttered. “What sort of question?”
“It’s something that’s been bugging me for months,” Maddox said, his eyes locking on mine with laser focus. “I’ve been part of this merry band of misfits for what, three years now? And I still don’t know the story behind Foxi French.”
The table went quiet, save for the gentle splash of the fountain and the distant chorus of night birds in the garden. I felt that familiar tightening in my chest, the one I always get when someone pokes about in the carefully sealed ashes of my past.
“What do you mean?” I asked, though I thought I already knew.
“I mean,” he said, leaning forward like a feline ready to pounce, “that I’m a professional storyteller. I can smell a good story from a mile off. You’ve got this whole other life, this persona that’s clearly distinct from who you are with us. How come we never talk about that? How does a little girl from some remote Swedish village turn into Brighton’s most glamorous nightclub hostess? What did that journey look like?”
“You’re such a nosy bastard,” I said, but there was no heat in it.
“Call it an occupational hazard,” he replied cheerfully. “Romance writers are terrible for wanting to know everyone’s backstory. Character development and all that.”
Maddox in a nutshell. Relentless in his pursuit of a good story, and too damn charming for anyone to tell him to bugger off. He wanted the truth of it, and a part of me wanted to give it to him.
Anna gave me that particular look that means she’s trying not to interfere, even though she’s dying for me to open up. Linn looked interested, but patient. She’d wait forever if she had to. Gianna was practically vibrating with excitement, but then she always does when a good story’s in the offing. And Steph had finally let all academic pretence go. She was just waiting to see what I’d say.
“It’s not all that interesting,” I shrugged.
“Bollocks,” Gianna said immediately. “Everything about you is interesting, silly. You run a fantasy club. You’ve got this whole glamorous alter ego, and you’ve never really told us how it started. That’s definitely interesting.”
“Plus,” Anna added gently, “it’s Midsummer, and you always tell us a story after the kids have gone to bed.”
Something fluttered in my chest at her words. Memory, perhaps. Or anticipation. She was right, of course. It was Midsummer. Just like the night my old life ended.
“Alright,” I said, surprising myself. “But first, can we please cut that gorgeous cake? And maybe open another bottle of wine or two? I need to be properly lubricated if I’m going to tell you about the night I became Foxi French. Fair warning though—this isn’t exactly a bedtime story unless you’re in a kinky mood. It gets rather... explicit.”
“Now you’re speaking my language,” Maddox said, rubbing his hands together like I’d just promised him the secrets of the universe.
Which, in a way, I suppose I had.
[Last updated: 05 July, 2025]
Hi, Linn here. Like all the stories about our Spoonie Sisters, this one touches on something deep. If you’ve ever wrestled invisible illnesses and hidden desires, you’re not alone. Wanna talk about it? Message me or drop an email to linnea@aswewrite.com
Foxy’s story has four more chapters to it, and I’m making them free for all readers in July. After that, only the first chapter will be free unless you join our mailing list. Subscribe or upgrade to get the next chapter straight to your inbox. And if you're already swooning, consider telling your favourite bookish spoonie about it.
Where Do You Want to Go Next?
🏠 A Midsummer Night’s Scene
⬅️ Chapter 1
➡️ Chapter 3
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