Page 117 of The Dravenhearst Brides
Behind the next door, Eli’s laughter. She’d know the sound anywhere.
It had been so long.
She was positively parched.
She stepped forward and opened the door.
“Tea, dearie?”
Margot licked her lips and reached.
40
June 2, 1902
Dear Ruth,
Keep this letter and show it to me if I am ever mad enough to desire this again. To subject myself to such horror.
Horror, yes—a woman is never closer to the veil between life and death than when she gives birth to a child.
—Excerpt, a letter from Babette Dravenhearst to Ruth
Asdawnapproached,Margotawoke to blinding pain.
Violent cramps pulsed through her abdomen, ripples of sickening throbs. She knew it was wrong. Something was wrong. So very terribly wrong.
Wrong, wrong, wrong.
Her vision swirled when she opened her eyes. Merrick’s lips were moving, but she couldn’t hear his words. He was very pale. His eyes were hypnotizingly black, scarcely a band of amber peeping through.
She focused on the glimpse of gold. The light.
Far better,she realized faintly,to look at his eyes than allthe red in the bed.
Another wave of pain. She gritted her teeth. It was agonizing, ripped through her heart as much as her body.
She understood enough to know something was being taken from her. Something precious.
Before she closed her eyes again, before she gave herself to unconsciousness, she saw it there, on the nightstand. A teacup.
So that was it then.
She had failed.
A soft breeze tickled her cheek. A shower of white all around.
Blossoms. Petals. Raining down from heaven. The eaves overhead dripped, heavy with them.
She spun, floating dreamily in her cocoon. Blooms landed in her hair. Her lungs filled with the scent of honeysuckle sweetness.
Her fingertips curled open, stretching to catch silk.
A soft murmur of voices. So soft.
The breeze crested, tugging at the ends of her hair.
Margot slept.
