Who Buries the Dead by Harris C.S

Author:Harris, C.S. [Harris, C.S.]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2015-03-03T08:00:00+00:00

Sebastian sat beside his library fire, a glass cradled in one palm, his gaze on the golden-red glow of the coals on the hearth. The house lay dark and quiet around him.

He took a sip of the brandy, felt it burn in his throat. He was drinking too much lately and he knew it—a slow, dangerous slide back into the self-destructive hell that had nearly consumed him in the months after he’d first returned to London.

The clock on the hearth chimed two and then fell silent. In its wake, the stillness of the night felt like a heavy presence, oppressive and soul sucking, and he was aware of the long, grueling hours of darkness stretching out ahead of him. He’d gone to bed with his wife; made slow, desperate love to her, then held her in his arms as she eased peacefully into sleep. He loved her with a tenderness and a passion that humbled, awed, and frightened him; he was closer to her than he had ever been to anyone. Yet in some vital, inexplicable way he found himself feeling more alone and disconnected than ever. And so he’d slipped from her side to draw on his breeches and dressing gown and come here.

He took another sip of the brandy, his unnaturally acute hearing picking up the sound of her door opening far above, her light footsteps on the stairs. He held himself very still. He did not want her to find him like this. Didn’t want her to see his weakness and his fear and his uncertainty.

She came up behind him and leaned over the chair to slip her arms around his neck and rest her linked hands against his chest. “You’re thinking about them, again, aren’t you?” she said. “The women and children of Santa Iria.”

“Yes.”

“You need to stop blaming yourself. You’ve dedicated years to making amends for a wrong that others did. But the past is past, and nothing you can do will ever change that. You can’t keep torturing yourself like this.”

He tipped back his head to look up at her. Her face was golden in the firelight, the strength of her features accentuated by the shadows and framed by the heavy fall of her dark hair.

He said, “I didn’t tell you everything.”

She brought up a hand to run the backs of her fingers down his cheek. “I know.”

In the silence that followed, he heard the fall of ash on the hearth and the endless tick of the clock. Then she came around to sit on the rug beside him and rest the side of her head against his leg.

He touched her hair, felt it slide soft and silky smooth through his fingers, and expelled his breath in a long, painful rush. “I watched the French kill them.”

“You don’t need to tell me.”

He shook his head, kept his gaze on the fire. “I knew the French captain and his men had left their camp a good half an hour before I managed to escape. But I rode to the convent anyway.

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