Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Her Sweetest Downfall - Rebecca Hamilton
Pheonix - J.A. Culican
Sarah's Farewell - Christopher D. Morgan
Hearts Return - Melle Amade
Headmaster of the Invisibles - Elizabetta Holcomb
Breaking the Surface - Nicole Giles
Fall: Scheherazade Retold - Demelza Carlton
Good Hunting - Amir Lane
Sea Glass and Sand Memories - Marsha A. Moore
About the Authors
- Rebecca Hamilton
- J.A. Culican
- Christopher D. Morgan
- Melle Amade
- Elizabetta Holcomb
- Nichole Giles
- Demelza Carlton
- Amir Lane
- Marsha A. Moore
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Her Sweetest Downfall - Rebecca Hamilton
Pheonix - J.A. Culican
Sarah's Farewell - Christopher D. Morgan
Hearts Return - Melle Amade
Headmaster of the Invisibles - Elizabetta Holcomb
Breaking the Surface - Nicole Giles
Fall: Scheherazade Retold - Demelza Carlton
Good Hunting - Amir Lane
Sea Glass and Sand Memories - Marsha A. Moore
About the Authors
- Rebecca Hamilton
- J.A. Culican
- Christopher D. Morgan
- Melle Amade
- Elizabetta Holcomb
- Nichole Giles
- Demelza Carlton
- Amir Lane
- Marsha A. Moore
DAWN OF HOPE
In support of
The Cajun Navy
Who work tirelessly to provide relief to those adversely affected by hurricanes Harvey & Irma.
Copyright © 2017
All rights reserved.
These are works of fiction. No actual person or event is depicted.
No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express permission of the author except for use of brief quotations in book reviews.
Formatted by Christopher D. Morgan, Dragon Realm Press
http://DragonRealmPress.com/
Her Sweetest Downfall
By Rebecca Hamilton
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without the permission of the publisher. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.
Copyright © 2012 by Rebecca Hamilton
All rights reserved.
Great Paxton, 1808
Ophelia knew two things for certain: First, the mark where her neck met her shoulder was not there yesterday, and second, if Lady Karina caught sight of it, she would hand her over to the church.
Initially, the marking seemed to be nothing more than a dark outline of a circle. But as Ophelia leaned closer to the mirror, her hand balanced gently against the frame, she realized the mark formed an ouroboros—a serpent eating its own tail.
Her heart sunk to her stomach. The town would make no exception of her; she would suffer the same fate as Alice Russel, declared a witch and murdered in a fury of violent outcry. No matter that no one could possibly know what such a marking meant—that it came from nowhere was enough to declare it evil.
The brass doorknob rattled, and she startled.
“Ophelia!” came the edge of Lady Karina’s voice. “Open this door.”
“One moment, please, Miss.”
She quickly started buttoning the front of her copper gown, but Lady Karina continued rattling the door.
“I’m coming in,” she said.
The tinker of keys echoed through the thin wooden door, and Ophelia’s fingers stumbled with the buttons on her collar, her heart racing faster with each passing moment.
The key slid into the lock, then the knob turned. She finished the final buttons of her gown and spun toward the door, pulling the two muslin flaps of her apron over her shoulders and starting to pin them together behind her neck.
Lady Karina stepped into the room, an envelope clutched in her hand. “You are never to lock your door,” she said, her irritation visible in the tremble of her long blonde curls. Her gaze trailed down to Ophelia’s neck. “Your collar is a mess and your buttons are one off. We can’t have that, can we?”
Ophelia tried to steady her hands enough to smooth the collar of her apron. “No, Miss.”
Lady Karina let out a crisp sigh and impatiently tapped the envelope against her arm. “Well? Are you going to straighten up? Surely you don’t expect me to do it for you.”
If she undid the buttons to fix her collar, she would expose the serpent—the devil’s symbol. Women in this town had been killed for less, and each execution delighted Lady Karina more than the last.
Stepping back, Ophelia covered the buttons with her hand, lowering her gaze to the floor and away from Lady Karina. Ophelia never much liked to make eye contact with Lady Karina anyway. The first time they’d met, Lady Karina had told Ophelia that her large, ice-blue eyes gave her the willies.
“I’ll take care of it right away, Miss.”
“Very well,” said Lady Karina. She handed over a small envelope with large script on the front. “Deliver this to Lord Isaac. He’ll need it by tomorrow morning, so you must make haste.”
Ophelia offered a polite nod, taking the envelope and tucking it away in the deep folds of her apron. “I’ll set out immediately.”
“After you make yourself a bit more presentable, of course,” Lady Karina corrected. “Percy is preparing one of the horses.”
Lady Karina stepped out without so much as a glance back. Once alone in the room, Ophelia spun back toward the mirror with a sigh.
“What ‘ave ye gotten into?” she muttered to her reflection. “Father would go mad.”
But Father wasn’t there. He’d never know his daughter had turned herself over to the same life as her mother, the same life that Father had worked so hard to put behind them. He had hoped for a proper education for her, as the poor lagged behind the upper class in education. Ophelia was reminded of this every time she spoke, and her accent had become so ingrained over the years that she soon tired of trying to speak properly. Her wisdom would show in other ways, she hoped.
Father had wanted more. He hadn’t known the way things would change following his death, the way their estate would dwindle, his daughter forced to start anew. A proper education was out of the question now.
Ophelia, however, had not taken this work for the pay. No, she’d done so because she was certain Lady Karina’s brother knew something of the disappearance of her mother, who had worked for him two years prior. Gone to work for him, and then disappeared. Ophelia found her way here just six months later.
This job—it was all a lie, a masquerade designed to find her
mother. Wherever she had gone, Ophelia knew she would not have gone willingly—not without telling her daughter why she was leaving. Ophelia would not stop this hunt until they were reunited, until her mother could once again hold her in an embrace and make the world feel right again.
After checking the marking once more—it had darkened and the skin had raised slightly—Ophelia did her buttons up properly, pinned the flaps of her apron collar up in a more acceptable fashion, and covered her hair—black as sin, as Lady Karina said when they’d first met—beneath a cream bonnet. She wrapped her mother’s old knit shawl around her shoulders and set out into the chill of autumn.
Atticus waited, saddled and bridled, stomping his foot against the cold earth and shaking his mane as he sneezed the early evening air.
“Many thanks, Percy,” Ophelia said to the young man holding the horse’s reins. “I’ll take it from ‘ere.”
As she rode into the woods, the horse’s canter thudded the ground like the beating of tribal drums, and the sap-scented wind shushed between the leaves above. In the distance, between the oaks and maples, a violin played.
She dug her heels into her horse’s sides and set him into a gallop. “Come on, old boy. We don’t want to be ‘ere when night falls.”
Already the autumnal sun was low, its sharp light slicing through the breaks of the forest canopy and glinting off the crystallized stones embedded along the forest path. Night would fall too soon.
Damn her. Lady Karina would never travel these woods at night, nor would anyone sane send their maid unattended for such a task. Not with the highwaymen known to pass through, not knowing the things those men would do to a woman alone in the woods.
When darkness encroached, there were still a good few miles left to Lord Isaac’s estate on the other side of Blackwood Forest. Thunder rumbled, but the heavy air did not yet spit down rain. She’d need to make haste. At least word had it that Lord Isaac often permitted late night visitors to stay the night in his servants’ quarters.
Atticus slowed to a trot. Up ahead, white feathers scattered the forest path.
“Come on,” Ophelia said. “Come on.”
Wolves howled from somewhere deeper in the forest, and the horse stopped.
“Atticus,” she hissed. She dug her heels in. “Go, boy.”
The horse whinnied and took three steps back, shaking his head. She stroked his neck and lifted her gaze to scan the forest. The moon glinted through the lattice of leaves only enough to reveal the dark trunks of the thicket on either side of the path. Above, charcoal clouds streaked against the patches of night sky, moving shadows over her forest path each time they rolled past the moon.
With the night came a chill nearly as cold as a winter morning, her breath puffing from her lips in a cloud of smoke. The violin tune grew louder; it cried mournfully between the oaks and maples like the wind in the tree boughs. Her chest tightened. How could that be? She’d covered too much ground to still hear this same violin.
Atticus reared, tumbling Ophelia from his back to the forest ground. He stomped his foot and backed away.
“For goodness sake!” She stood and dusted leaves and debris from her dress. When she reached for his reins, the horse stepped back further.
“Atticus,” she hissed, and she lunged for him this time, snatching the reins. But just as soon as she’d recouped her horse, he bolted away, ripping the reins from Ophelia’s hand with a burning force. Atticus thundered back the way they’d come, leaving her alone in the dark.
Tears and cold night air stung her eyes. The violinist must have been terribly near because she could hear the tune cutting through the trees and underbrush. She glanced back over her shoulder for Atticus, but he was long gone.
As she shuffled toward the edge of the path, the overgrown grass soughed together between her shins. “Hello?”
The mark between her neck and shoulder ached, and she placed her hand on it, the pressure a near relief.
I need to get to Lord Isaac’s estate.
As she treaded across the decaying leaves along the trail in search of her horse, a clammy chill rushed up her spine. She stole one last glance into the woods. Yellow eyes glowed between the brambles, and her breath rushed from her and left her lightheaded. Her throat felt dry, and she tasted something rotten on the wind.
Quickly, she spun back around, desperately searching for her horse. Before she could so much as orient herself, something hooked around her waist and knocked the air from her lungs. A rough hand clamped over her mouth, imparting the tangy spice of cloves on her lips.
She choked on the saliva in the back of her throat and threw her elbow into the person behind her—a man, judging by his strength and the mass of his arms. He grunted, but didn’t let go.
From Great Paxton to Damascus, 1808
As the man dragged Ophelia into the underbrush, she struggled against his grasp. His hand fell from her mouth, and she sucked in a breath, prepared to scream. But before any sound could pass her lips, he hoisted her over his shoulder and broke into a sprint, weaving through the forest so impossibly fast that the bark and leaves became a blur. Their bodies thrust into darkness, black and complete. A sudden surge left Ophelia with the feeling of her stomach lagging behind. A light, bright and blinding, flashed before them, and they slammed to a halt.
He lowered Ophelia onto something, and she blinked a few times to clear her vision. She was on a bed, and they were in a cabin with strange walls made of mortar or packed clay. Before she could get out any words, her stomach churned. She rolled to her side and vomited on the floor, then fell back against the pillow and closed her eyes.
The man said nothing, just allowed her to rest. He shuffled and rattled beside her, likely clearing away the mess. But the bile still coated Ophelia’s tongue and teeth, and her stomach’s previous contents permeated the air with foulness.
“Why—” Her voice cracked.
Her question was rewarded only with silence. Even with her eyes closed, the room spun.
As soon as she regained a sense of balance, she would look for an escape. She needed to remain calm—to find out who he was and where he’d taken her. Even highwaymen could be persuaded with enough charm, though she had her doubts about him. Most would rush to rob a woman of her belongings or innocence, but he had not yet done so.
“Who are you?” she asked, her voice gravelly. “Where ‘ave you taken me?”
The man’s footsteps creaked across the floorboards, and his hand, warm as sheets stacked beside a fire, brushed her hair away from her neck. He unpinned her apron and started on the buttons.
This was all wrong. If he were going to take her innocence, he wouldn’t bother with the gentle care of unbuttoning. She pushed her hand against his forearm, but her effort did nothing to stop him. As she attempted to sit up, dizziness rushed to her head, and she fell back again.
He pulled the top of her gown past her shoulder, and his fingers grazed the burning mark between her neck and shoulders.
“I was right,” he said, his voice deep, husky. It was the voice of a man who lived away from a society of formalities. He stood and paced away.
A new panic thumped through her. The serpent. If that was the reason he’d brought her here—
Ophelia blinked, and the small, bare room slowly came into focus. The cramped structure made her stomach go cold. She lay on a cot beside a window that was clearly too small to climb through. The only door was on the opposite side of the room, which seemed to be all the cabin consisted of, aside from a kitchen along the wall across from a humble fireplace.
Between Ophelia and her exit, the man crouched at the hearth, his body angled toward her, his sleeves pushed up to his elbows. The flames cast a warm glow over his tanned face and forearms, and his dark, overgrown hair tangled in front of his deep brown eyes.
“I do not intend to harm you,” he said, stoking the fire.
He pulled on his collar, straining it against the other side of his neck. Right there, just at the apex
of his shoulder and his neck, was the same mark of the serpent. “The ouroboros is said to represent rebirth. To protect against evil. But it doesn’t.”
He turned toward her. “We are mediators between the physical and spiritual world. We are the ones meant to protect against evil.”
“I think ye ‘ave the wrong idea, sir,” Ophelia said, managing to sit upright. But, deep down, she knew the identical markings were no coincidence. “Now if ye don’t mind . . . ”
She stood and headed for the door, her heart racketing in her chest. The man didn’t move.
“Going somewhere?” he asked.
She wobbled near the doorway, gripping the doorframe for balance. “I’ve a letter to deliver.”
“That, my dear,” he said, “is going to take you a very, very long time.”
Outside the door, the land stretched out toward nothing. Just acres of dried grass, the world a wash of pale yellow in the moonlight.
She spun back toward the man. “Who are ye? Where ‘ave ye taken me?”
The smile fell from his lips, tension settling along his shaded jaw and the corners of his eyes. “Please,” he said. “Sit.”
“I’m fine standing.” The burning on Ophelia’s neck grew more intense, and she pressed her hand there to ease the sting.
“I can help,” he said, “but you have to trust me.”
“Do I?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.
“If you want that burning to go away, yes.”
She continued out the door, thankful the air had warmed. She must have lost her shawl in the struggle.
Which way to go?
“You’ll never make it back on foot from here,” he called through the open door.
“Well, certainly not if I stand ‘ere talking to ye!”
She started off, heading toward a horizon that glowed red like a fresh cut. She would go as far as she could before the night swallowed the sun. Maybe civilization was not too far past the horizon. She would find out where she was and how to get home—if Lady Karina’s estate could even be called such a thing.
Dawn Of Hope: Charity Anthology Page 1
