by E. J. Dawson
Often the girl had gotten her own way in matters of importance, and at the start, it had been because everyone thought her fragile. She’d wanted a party that was less about ribbons and other girls and more about grown-up frocks and subtly using her powers on unwitting guests. Finola wanted to go out to the theater and restaurants, frequently escaping her tutor to surprise Letitia in the city.
Letitia wasn’t sure what drove Finola. A part of her had become hard as ice and indifferent to the advice of those older than herself. But she listened to Letitia.
“This wasn’t only about Finola,” Letitia said, watching him.
“It doesn’t matter what it’s about,” he said.
“Then why are you pushing me away?” she asked, suddenly confused.
“This may be America,” he said, “but they have certainly not abandoned their religion or their practices of casting out or even killing witches. I did not want you the victim of a mob or some other vile crime before I knew you were safely out of the country, and I didn’t wish to speculate on what could have happened if we failed to prove Calbright’s guilt. I had to be sure no suspicion would fall on you, I had to show that I was to blame for the bullet in his chest, or did you forget about that?”
In all that had happened, Letitia hadn’t thought about the manner of Calbright’s death. Alasdair sighed and put down his glass.
“Which is why you should have caught the train.” He went on. “So, care to tell me why it was imperative for you to come seek me out?”
Finola’s words came back to Letitia. He’s being stupid, pushing you away because he thinks it’ll make you safe.
“I thought…” she gulped and plowed on with eyes clenched shut. “Doesn’t what we went through matter more than that?”
There was silence, and when she dared open her eyes he had gone quite still.
“You wanted to keep me safe,” she said, the slow realization making her feel stupid. “Because you didn’t before. In the old hotel. In the cellar and when I fought Lynwood. You couldn’t help me, so you put distance between the case and me. You did it to protect me.”
His head snapped up.
Finola had been right.
“Did you think my staying mattered so little, and that I was simply there to contain Finola’s growing gift?” she asked, and he scowled, a flush coming to his cheeks. “Or was it because in the cellar you were naked, not of clothes but of showing your true self, and I saw every part of you and was not afraid.”
“I did the unforgivable—”
“Stop pretending!” she shouted, before lowering her voice. “I’ve not been brave about so many things, but I didn’t do all of that for you or for money or because of Finola. I’m tainted, and it doesn’t matter as long as I can stop it happening to other people.”
“I know now you were never motivated by money to give aid,” he whispered. “But…no matter what you say, it didn’t make me worthy of you.”
She stared at him, and when he wouldn’t meet her gaze, she took hesitating steps to stand before him.
“In all the times I’ve ever been afraid,” she said, “and there were many, I’ve never been scared of you. Only for you.”
“I simply…I wanted you to be safe,” he said. “And I didn’t do that at the old hotel.”
She tugged off her veil, dropping it along with her purse and gloves on his chair.
“Look at me,” she said. “I mean really look. I can’t walk away from the marks it left on me, nor do I want to live a lonely and isolated life hidden away from the world. You came and showed me that I was still worthy of being someone’s wife, that I could come to love again, and if that means one of us not being an impertinent ass for a moment, then it will have been as I’ve always known it to be with you.”
“And how’s that, Tisha?” he said, standing with his hands loosely at his side, but she sensed the coiled spring within him, the tension in his jaw as he spoke, the narrowed gaze.
“That once again, I’m here, I’m not running away, and you will not dissuade me from my convictions.” She lifted her hand, placing the lightest of touches on his jaw. “I can be brave enough for both of us.”
“Do you mean it?” he said, and she watched his chest rise and fall in quick breaths. “You really—you want to stay with me?”
Letitia smiled through growing tears. “Yes, because you made me worthwhile. You helped me be brave.”
He seized her, wrapping her up in his arms, pressing her against him, cradling her head under his chin. She breathed in his scent, let the heat of the desert rush through her, and she knew that it would banish the stain and set her free.
“Oh, Tisha,” he whispered in her ear. “I was afraid. I never wanted another bad thing to happen to you. I just wanted to wrap you in safety, to give you peace after all you’ve triumphed over.”
“I don’t feel that way,” she said, relief warring with nerves. “I don’t know what to do or say.”
He cupped her chin with one hand, looking down at her lovingly. “I promise you it won’t matter, none of it will. You’ve opened my eyes, over and over, and the only thing more admirable than your abilities is your courage. I’ve never felt weak until I saw how strong you are.”
Letitia couldn’t say a word, as his lips fell on hers and he kissed her with care, banishing the pain of the past.
They spent the next hours talking and eating and making plans for the future—to get married in Ireland by the sea, to travel the world with Finola—all of it lovers’ talk.
By the end, Letitia’s head was spinning with Irish whiskey and Alasdair’s ceaseless kisses.
About the Author
E. J. Dawson both credits and blames her mother—by reading The Lord of the Rings by J. R. R. Tolkien aloud to E. J. twice—for her complete absorption with the world of fiction. Growing up in a haunted mansion sandwiched between an abandoned mine and an endless pine plantation should have been all the fuel E. J.’s imagination needed, but her parents filled her life with stories: about themselves, their lives, and the ones they found in the pages of books.
Writing all through her early years and completing her first book at the age of sixteen, E. J. let a wonderful pastime fall into a vague hobby. When she turned thirty, and doctors told E. J. she might not be able to have children, she had to find meaning in life again. Her sole focus turned to the one thing that made her happy: writing.
When E. J. is not writing or working in a small country town on council permits in Australia, she’s walking her two rescue special needs dogs, spending time with her husband, or curled up with a book.
You can connect with her at www.ejdawson.com and on Twitter @ejdawsonauthor.
Content Warning
This book contains adult themes including miscarriage, suicide, pedophilia, death, murder, rape, and possession.