by Brock Law
we? Did you really buy my competitor’s brand?”
“Martha, please,” Washington hushed, “not now.”
Martha clammed up meanly.
“How is she?” Jefferson inquired.
“She’s mending, albeit slowly,” Martha replied. “They nearly drained her completely. It’s going to take time.”
“Did she give you any useful details about her captors?” Greene asked.
“She did,” said Martha. “She’s quite convinced that there is a foreign presence of leadership to whom they report. They made regular contact with someone and presented her to him via webcam. He didn’t speak directly to her, but his demeanor was harassing towards the others who apparently were constantly apprehensive to make their regular reports. She did say that she heard him mention the name Lafayette.”
Jefferson summed, “Then the worst is true.”
Martha comprehended the group’s grief, “Is it as bad as my fears?”
“I’m afraid so Martha,” Jefferson said. “It’s gone.”
“Darling, I’m sorry, but there’s little left we can do here,” Washington said. “We have no choice in the matter. We need to get to Europe as quickly as we can.”
“Then I’ll need to get this little one fixed up,” Martha returned. “I’ve got to run out to the pharmacy quickly. William, would you mind watching her for bit?”
“Me?” Will asked with surprise.
“Yes you, young man,” Martha compelled. “As a matter of fact, she asked about you. Don’t worry I won’t be long.”
“I…” Will stammered, “okay.”
“Well, go on then,” Martha insisted. “Keep her talking, she’s in somewhat of an elusive state. Try to comfort her.”
Martha grabbed Will by the arm and coaxed him out of his seat. He stood and agreed with a look of concern. She patted both his shoulders encouragingly, turned, snatched her purse and rushed out into the hallway. As soon as the door shut behind her, the men started to talk amongst themselves again. Having official leave to remove himself from further threats by Adams to dislodge him from mortal society, Will went the bedroom. Looking back, he checked whether anyone was opposed to his departure. The immortals, however, were all preoccupied with planning their concessions to the Templars. Will shrugged, opened up the bedroom door and slipped inside. He closed it gently and scanned the room.
The only gleam came from the rising sun, which was held off by the drawn curtains. He found the bed, the sheets of which were so neatly fastened that he couldn’t see the girl tucked protectively underneath. Will stood for a moment, hoping he hadn’t woken her.
Satisfied that his entrance, or the bickering outside, hadn’t disturbed her, he moved around the bed to a chair in front of the window. He settled down, folded his hands on his stomach and leaned back. Will inspected the bed again, but nothing was visible under the quilt, which was pulled up above the disorderly pillows. He shut his eyes and dozed off.
A sweet French accent whispered across the room, so fragile that it couldn’t broadcast his full name, “Wi…”
He looked up. A tangled mop of dark hair and two smoky eyes were peeking at him over the edge of the quilt.
“Is that you?”
“It’s me.”
“You are here with Martha and George?”
“Yeah.”
“How is it possible?”
“Long story.”
“You know?”
“Yeah, I know.”
“You know what I am?”
“I know who you are.”
Vivienne locked eyes with him, unblinking for seconds, searching into his face. She still looked afraid, uncertain as she judged him. Kindly, he gazed back. Her brows twitched and softened.
A slithering indentation under the quilt rose towards him, until her hand stuck out. Her fingers stretched fully, reaching for him. Will stood and came to the bedside. He sat down on the mattress next to her and took her hand. It was ice cold.
She continued to look up at him with the quilt covering most of her face. The warmth from his hand began to seep into her frozen flesh, sending a ripple of energy through her body. Her eyes flickered as she soaked in the heat from his skin. Will felt the quilt shift as she curled up and began to relax.
“You saved me twice now. Thank you,” said Vivienne.
“Well, I didn’t do such a good job the first time. Had to try again,” Will consoled.
Although he couldn’t see her lips, Vivienne’s cheeks scrunched up as if she was smiling.
“I owe you so much,” she thanked him again.
“You don’t owe me anything. I have a feeling you’ll be the one saving me pretty soon,” Will prophesized.
Her cheek bones heightened again as her eyelids drifted closed. She squeezed his hand with a little more force.
“How are you feeling?” Will asked.
“Très mauvaise.”
He looked at her curiously.
“You don’t want to know,” Vivienne clarified.
As she spoke, the sheet slid a little from her face. A dark bruise became visible just under her left eye. Will examined her more closely as she rested. In the scant light he could begin to see that her eyes were puffy and red. Will reached for the sheet, tugging at it slowly. Vivie’s eyes flashed open and she snatched his hand.
“May I?”
She shook her head and yanked the covers higher.
“I’ve seen some pretty bad injuries treated on the football field, even nursed a few of my own. Maybe I can help,” Will implored.
The quilt drew down slowly again. When her eyes reappeared, they were glistening with teary dew. She closed them tightly and let go of the sheet. He brushed the hair away from her forehead. With both hands, he folded back the cloth below her chin, until her bare shoulders were exposed.
Her usual olive skin was ghostly white. Pink scratches lined her throat. Her jaw and cheeks were splotched with black impacts, which were yellowing around the edges. On her neck and collar bone were deep punctures, burgundy and jagged. Will had witnessed how quickly Franklin recovered from a stab wound. By comparison Vivienne’s trauma must have been horrendous to leave such profound traces a day later. She sniffled and her chest hopped as the tears billowed up. Will replaced the sheets, which she quickly pulled back over her nose.
“They didn’t have to bite me. They just liked to,” she sputtered out.
Vivienne wept, retreating inside her linen shell. Her body jostled against Will’s leg as she muffled her invisible sobbing. Still, her cries were strained and full of anguish, permeating the layers between them. Will placed a hand on top of the little bundle of misery.
“It’s okay, you’re safe now,” Will tried to comfort.
As Vivienne’s sobs grew louder, Will pulled her body closer. She curled up against his hip and latched on to his shirt. He tried as best he could to secure his arm around her, hoping to instill some faith even though he had little himself.
“I’m going to find them,” he promised.
Will’s head was spinning, filled with a sympathy-driven rage. Any remaining doubts as to the true identities of his adversaries vanished when he looked at what they had done to her. The thought that anyone could mercilessly shred such a kind person was disgusting.
After a few minutes, Vivienne’s sadness began to wane, or at least the noise subsided. Her moaning had lightened to a silent flutter in her lungs as she painfully drew in air to settle herself. With each breath Will felt her whole body shake against him. She reemerged, wiped her eyes and rested her head on the pillow.
“I’m sorry I got you into this,” Vivienne apologized as her tear-streaked face turned towards him.
“It wasn’t your fault,” Will replied. “Apparently, it was fate.”
“Perhaps it is,” Vivienne said, “for both of us.”
The sweetness in her tone drifted out and calmed him somewhat. Just as the last word reached his ear, her shuttering eyes squeezed out a few more teardrops. In an almost angeli
c way, the water that rolled out seemed to add a little color back into her face.
Do Something Worth Writing
Together in his disheveled home, Franklin, with Will, toiled amidst centuries of shattered memories. His books had been pulled from the shelves, carpets ripped up, closets gutted, furniture knocked over, and everything was caked in dirt and broken glass. Will, equipped with a mop and bucket, cleared the kitchen so the house would at least be functional again. Franklin managed the living room with a rag and bottle of window cleaner. At his feet was a trash can, into which he tossed the mutilated antiques that he had amassed over generations. Each one slipped from his hand into the bag, accompanied by a sour grimace and a mournful sigh.
Franklin picked up a busted frame. In it, torn strands of canvas hung from the splintered edges. He tried to fit it back together to view the image.
“It’s my old street in Passy, when I was ambassador,” Franklin recalled. “Vivie gave me this for my birthday. She painted it herself.”
Will encouraged from the doorway, “They’ll be more birthdays.”
Franklin looked at him with an optimistic grin, “Quite right, there just won’t be another one of these.”
It fell into the bag and Franklin moved on to the next pile of clutter. Will resumed his lathering motion across the tiles. The thickness of the grime was going to need some stronger cleaning fluid. The scuffs weren’t coming up. He sponged the ratty fibers as deeply into the grout as he could without dislodging any. Despite his most sincere effort, he just couldn’t erase the stains.
Franklin popped up from the coffee table. “Well now, I thought I’d lost this forever!”
Will
