All the Ever Afters by Jackie Barbosa

Author:Jackie Barbosa [Barbosa, Jackie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Circe Press

6

Cannon fire. Confusion. Men shouting, calling out, screaming. The acrid smell of gunpowder and smoke and blood. So much blood.

And the faces. Oh God, the faces. And names.

Henry Thomas Wright. Richard David Jacoby. George Crenshaw. Michael McInerney. Isaiah Wil—

“Mr. Prescott, Mr. Prescott, wake up.” A cool, dry hand caressed his sweating forehead. The voice and touch of an angel. “’Tis only a dream.”

If only it were just a dream. But no, every image, every sight, sound, and smell was excruciatingly, agonizingly real.

Even so, he managed to claw his way from beneath the heavy rubble of sleep, threw off the crushing weight of memories he wanted nothing more than to forget.

Yet it was his curse, his burden to carry them.

His eyes fluttered open. She perched on the bed beside him, her unblemished brow furrowed with concern as she bent over him. The blaze burning in the fireplace lit her golden hair from behind with an ethereal glow. Her diaphanous white gown— the same one she’d worn last night—had come undone at the shoulder and gaped away to reveal the curve of one perfect breast.

Calliope. His pulse steadied, his panic eased, his rigid muscles relaxed.

His angel was a whore. Or his whore an angel. He wasn’t sure which.

Her features softened with relief. “Thank heavens you’re awake.” She straightened up, thereby depriving him of the lovely view. A pity.

“I’m sorry if I frightened you,” he apologized, still gathering his fractured wits. Returning to the present after reliving the past so vividly was always like being pushed through a brick wall from darkness into bright light.

“Oh no, not at all,” she assured him breathily, refastening the closure at her shoulder. Another pity.

And she was lying, too. She had been frightened. Her averted eyes told him as much.

But it wasn’t his crying out in distress that had frightened her. As he shook off the last of the nightmare-induced confusion, he realized the source of her fear.

She had left him alone. Had gotten out of the bed, donned her gown, and left him. And when she had returned, he had been in the grips of his familiar, nightly torment.

Perhaps, after his admission last night that he could not sleep alone, he should be angry that she had left him, but instead, he was profoundly relieved. The memories hadn’t seen fit to persecute him until after she had gone, which meant his conjecture had been accurate.

He couldn’t sleep alone. But he could sleep, unmolested and undisturbed, if she stayed with him.

“Thank you,” he murmured, clasping her upper arm in one hand. It was then he noticed the scratch on her cheek. It was red and raised, but not bleeding. “Did I do that?” he asked, brushing the injury with his thumb.

“Yes. But it’s nothing,” she assured him quickly. “’Twas an accident, not done apurpose.”

“Nonetheless, it must have hurt. And for that, I am sorry.” He levered himself up to a sitting position. “When did you leave?” He posed the question in as neutral a tone as he could muster.

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