she’d seen something terrible. As though she’d suffered horribly.
10
September 4, 1864
M idnight. Too late to fall asleep, too early to be awake. A candle burns on my nightstand, the flickering shadows foreboding.
I am haunted already. Will I ever forgive myself for not finding Rosalyn until it was too late? And why is she—the one I vowed to forget—still on my mind?
My head is pounding. Cordelia is always at the door, offering drinks, lozenges, powdered herbs. I take them, like a recuperating child. Father and Damon glance at me when they think I’m asleep. Do they know of the nightmares?
I thought marriage was a fate worse than death. I was wrong. I was wrong about so many things, too many things, and all I can do is pray for forgiveness and hope that somehow, somewhere, I can summon strength from the depths of my existence to step firmly onto the path of the right again. I will do it. I must. For Rosalyn.
And for her.
Now I will blow out the candle and hope for sleep—like that of the dead—to engulf me quickly….
“Stefan! Time to get up!” my father called, slamming my bedroom door.
“What?” I struggled to sit, not sure what hour it was, or what day it was, or how much time had passed since Rosalyn’s death. Day faded into night, and I could never really sleep, only doze into terrifying dreams. I wouldn’t have eaten anything, except that Cordelia continued to come into my room with her concoctions, spoon-feeding them to me to ensure that they were eaten. She’d make fried chicken and okra and a thick mash of what she called
sufferer stew,
which she said would make me feel better.
She’d left another one, a drink this time, on my nightstand. I drank it quickly.
“Get ready. Alfred will help you prepare,” my father said.
“Get ready for what?” I asked, swinging my legs onto the floor. I hobbled to the mirror. I had stubble over my chin, and my tawny hair stood up on all ends. My eyes were red, and my nightshirt was hanging off my shoulders. I looked awful.
Father stood behind me, appraising my reflection. “You’ll pull yourself together. Today is Rosalyn’s funeral, and it’s important to me and the Cartwrights that we are there. We want to show everyone that we must band together against the evil that’s scourging our town.”
While Father prattled on about demons, I thought about facing the Cartwrights for the first time. I still felt horribly guilty. I couldn’t help thinking that the attack wouldn’t have happened if I’d been waiting for Rosalyn on the porch, instead of lingering in the study with Katherine. If I’d been outside, waiting for Rosalyn, I would have seen her walking from the fields in her pink dress. Maybe I could have faced death with her, too, and she wouldn’t have had to confront that nightmarish animal alone. I may not have loved Rosalyn, but I couldn’t forgive myself for not being there to save her.
“Well, come on,” Father said impatiently as Alfred walked in, holding a white linen shirt and a double-breasted black suit. I blanched. It was the suit I’d have worn at my wedding—and the church where we were mourning Rosalyn was to have been the site of the ceremonyestablishing our union. Still, I managed to change into the suit, allowed Alfred to help me shave, since my hands were so shaky, and emerged an hour later ready to do what I had to do.
I kept my eyes down as I followed Father and Damon to the carriage. Father sat up front, next to Alfred, while Damon sat in the back with me.
“How are you, brother?” Damon asked above the familiar clip-clop of Duke’s and Jake’s hooves down Willow Creek Road.
“Not very well,” I said formally, a stiff lump in my throat.
Damon put a hand on my shoulder. The magpies chattered, the bees buzzed, and the sun cast a golden glow on the trees. The entire coach smelled like ginger, and I felt my stomach heave. It was the smell of guilt over lusting after a woman who was never to
10
September 4, 1864
M idnight. Too late to fall asleep, too early to be awake. A candle burns on my nightstand, the flickering shadows foreboding.
I am haunted already. Will I ever forgive myself for not finding Rosalyn until it was too late? And why is she—the one I vowed to forget—still on my mind?
My head is pounding. Cordelia is always at the door, offering drinks, lozenges, powdered herbs. I take them, like a recuperating child. Father and Damon glance at me when they think I’m asleep. Do they know of the nightmares?
I thought marriage was a fate worse than death. I was wrong. I was wrong about so many things, too many things, and all I can do is pray for forgiveness and hope that somehow, somewhere, I can summon strength from the depths of my existence to step firmly onto the path of the right again. I will do it. I must. For Rosalyn.
And for her.
Now I will blow out the candle and hope for sleep—like that of the dead—to engulf me quickly….
“Stefan! Time to get up!” my father called, slamming my bedroom door.
“What?” I struggled to sit, not sure what hour it was, or what day it was, or how much time had passed since Rosalyn’s death. Day faded into night, and I could never really sleep, only doze into terrifying dreams. I wouldn’t have eaten anything, except that Cordelia continued to come into my room with her concoctions, spoon-feeding them to me to ensure that they were eaten. She’d make fried chicken and okra and a thick mash of what she called
sufferer stew,
which she said would make me feel better.
She’d left another one, a drink this time, on my nightstand. I drank it quickly.
“Get ready. Alfred will help you prepare,” my father said.
“Get ready for what?” I asked, swinging my legs onto the floor. I hobbled to the mirror. I had stubble over my chin, and my tawny hair stood up on all ends. My eyes were red, and my nightshirt was hanging off my shoulders. I looked awful.
Father stood behind me, appraising my reflection. “You’ll pull yourself together. Today is Rosalyn’s funeral, and it’s important to me and the Cartwrights that we are there. We want to show everyone that we must band together against the evil that’s scourging our town.”
While Father prattled on about demons, I thought about facing the Cartwrights for the first time. I still felt horribly guilty. I couldn’t help thinking that the attack wouldn’t have happened if I’d been waiting for Rosalyn on the porch, instead of lingering in the study with Katherine. If I’d been outside, waiting for Rosalyn, I would have seen her walking from the fields in her pink dress. Maybe I could have faced death with her, too, and she wouldn’t have had to confront that nightmarish animal alone. I may not have loved Rosalyn, but I couldn’t forgive myself for not being there to save her.
“Well, come on,” Father said impatiently as Alfred walked in, holding a white linen shirt and a double-breasted black suit. I blanched. It was the suit I’d have worn at my wedding—and the church where we were mourning Rosalyn was to have been the site of the ceremonyestablishing our union. Still, I managed to change into the suit, allowed Alfred to help me shave, since my hands were so shaky, and emerged an hour later ready to do what I had to do.
I kept my eyes down as I followed Father and Damon to the carriage. Father sat up front, next to Alfred, while Damon sat in the back with me.
“How are you, brother?” Damon asked above the familiar clip-clop of Duke’s and Jake’s hooves down Willow Creek Road.
“Not very well,” I said formally, a stiff lump in my throat.
Damon put a hand on my shoulder. The magpies chattered, the bees buzzed, and the sun cast a golden glow on the trees. The entire coach smelled like ginger, and I felt my stomach heave. It was the smell of guilt over lusting after a woman who was never to
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