Page 4 of Here in Your Arms
The next entry on the page was brief:“He does not seek my company, nor avoid it. When we sit at the high table, he acknowledges me only when necessary. His manner is not unkind, but it is distant, as though I am already his wife in name alone. I thought we would have spoken by now. That he might wish to hear of my years in the convent, to know something of the woman I have become. But he has not asked, and we are strangers now.”
At the top of the next page, the entry continued,"I should not long for softness. It is unbecoming. But some part of me grieves for the boy who smiled so easily. If he is gone, what is left for me?"
Rose was frustrated on Margaret’s behalf for this Tiernan guy’s indifference to his soon-to-be wife. Margaret was sounding more and more despondent, as she had when first she’d been sent to the convent.
The next entry was prefaced by a note that it was“a fortnight before our nuptials”. Rose hoped for Margaret’s sake that something was about to change.
“I dreamed of him last night. Not as he is now, but as he was when we were children. I dreamed of the boy who stole apples from the kitchen, the boy who used to chase me through the fields, who laughed so hard he could not breathe. I woke with tears on my cheeks, though I do not know why. Tis the fever, perhaps. I am not myself.”
Poor Margaret!
Rose rubbed her tired eyes, the burn of exhaustion settling deep. She had been reading for too long and her eyes were suffering for it. The desk lamp cast long shadows across the open book, the ink faded and uneven from the passage of centuries. She blinked down at the next entry, her brow knitting as the letters seemed to shimmer, the ancient script shifting before her eyes.
Yep,she thought,I’ve overdone it.
Still, she couldn’t help it, and she turned the page. Just then, the air in the room thickened, suddenly heavy, pressing against her ears like a distant roar. The fluorescent lights high above flickered once, twice, then dimmed, their soft hum vanishing into eerie silence. The edges of the book grew warm beneath her fingertips, the worn leather heating unnaturally against her skin.
A whisper curled at the nape of her neck—faint, distant, like a breath from another world. Rose froze, waiting for the strangeness to pass. Then the light flared, searing and all-consuming, swallowing the office in a blaze of white. The solid ground dissolved beneath her feet.
Rose barely had time to gasp before she was falling. The air around her howled, rushing past her ears like a storm. Her pulse pounded, a frantic drumbeat in a suddenly suffocating void. She reached out, grasping at nothing, the book sliding out of her hands as the world twisted.
And just before darkness claimed her, the last thing she saw was the ink on the page beneath her fingertips, glowing as if newly written:
“I am afraid of him.”
Chapter Two
Cold air rushed against Rose’s skin, sharp and bracing, as though she’d stepped outside in the dead of winter without a coat.
But that didn’t make sense.
She’d been inside. At the university. The desk lamp’s glow, the scent of old parchment, the discovery of the journal—it had all been right there, right in front of her. And now...
What the hell had happened? How was she...outside?
Had she passed out?
Rose pushed with her hands to sit up, and then glanced down and around her. She looked down, blinking in confusion, her breath coming faster now. The ground beneath her was uneven, covered in a thick bed of pine needles and fallen leaves. Trees loomed overhead, dark and whispering in the wind. But how...?
She pressed a hand to her forehead, trying to steady herself. The world swayed, tilting unnaturally, and a deep nausea rolled through her stomach.
She was dreaming. Obviously. But geez, the nausea felt so real. She had a fleeting fear that she was going to throw up in her dream and then wake up to find the vomiting was real.
The damp leaves beneath her hands felt so...real, so cold and tangible.
Suddenly, the dream idea seemed improbable. There was too much detail. Her fingers curled into the damp leaves, the texture rough and distinct against her skin. The cold air bit at her cheeks and hands. Somewhere in the distance, an owl hooted, its call low and haunting. The wind rattled the branches above and beyond that, a rustling sound was heard, small and faint, thankfully not louder or closer to cause alarm. Critters, probably.
This was not—couldn’t be—a dream.
What seemed like morning mist curled around her, thick and cloying, not just something she saw but something shefelt.It gathered at her ankles, cool and damp, seeping through the fabric of her jeans.
She shivered.
No dream had ever feltthisreal.
The rustling in the distance had faded, but the wind still carried the faint creak of shifting branches. The owl’s call came again, its mournful cry echoing through the trees.
Rose swallowed hard.
