Page 97 of Somewhere Without You
In the distance, a horse whinnied, followed by the deafening boom of a cannon.
I looked down, startled to see a floor-length wine colored gown soaked at the hem with dirt and rain.
I knewexactlywhere I was.
Still, I moved toward the desk, needing confirmation. Letters lay scattered in messy piles across the surface, and an overturned ink bottle had spilled its contents, dark liquid bleeding over the edge.
Her name was scrawled across every envelope, the ink looping in a hand I recognized too well. As I sifted through the letters, paper whispering beneath my fingers, the sudden rip of the tent flaps startled me.
“Charlotte?”
I turned, my breath catching.
James stood in the entrance, framed by the chaos behind him. The gold buttons of his dark blue uniform glinted in the candlelight, his coat soaked through and streaked with mud. Blood clung to his trousers in thick smears, the crimson echoing the sash knotted at his waist.
“God’s teeth,”he breathed, his voice ragged.“It’s really you.”
In two strides, he was in front of me.
I didn’t hesitate. I fell into him, the past collapsing between us.
“James,”I whispered, my voice trembling against his shoulder.“I thought you were dead,”I said, breathless.“Finnigan told me—”I stopped short, pulling back just enough to see his face.“Wait. . . what did you call me?”
James brushed a gloved hand over my hair, the leather rough against my skin.“Charlotte,”he said affectionately.“That is your name, is it not?”
“No. . .”My heart stuttered.“James, it’s me. It’s Emily.”
His smile wavered for a heartbeat, then widened again—broadening the dimples peeking out beneath a week’s worth of stubble.
“Of course it is,”he said.“You must think me mad not to recognize my own wife.”
Wife?
He reached into his coat and pulled out a small, tarnished mirror.“Here,”he said, offering it to me.“See for yourself.”
I stared at it, suddenly afraid.
But my fingers moved on their own, unclasping the tiny metal latch on the copper lid. It creaked open, and I tilted the mirror toward the candlelight.
The face staring back wasn’t mine.
Her features were familiar, but barely—like seeing yourself in a dream. Auburn hair pinned neatly under a lace cap, cheeks smudged with soot and war fatigue. Her eyes were the same coppery brown as mine, but older somehow. She wore my bones like a memory—close, but not quite mine.
I blinked, but the reflection didn’t change.
“What is this?”I whispered, my voice barely audible over the distant rumble of cannon fire.“Why do I look like her?”
James placed his hand over mine.“You know why. Deep down, you’ve always known.”
“I don’t understand,”I said, still staring into the mirror.“I’m not Charlotte. I’m Emily. I was—”I paused, the images fracturing in my head. Flashes of long-forgotten memories flickered between us. The two of us on our wedding night, wrapped in the warmth of each other as the shadow of war crept closer.
Our final goodbye—James holding me tight until he no longer could. His rich chocolate hair swept over his eyes as the sound of his horse faded into the distance beside Finn’s.
Then suddenly, I was bedridden, frail, weak, and coughing up blood. Until, finally, there was nothing.
My stomach flipped.
“Oh my God. I’m. . . her,”I breathed.“Or I was. Once.”
