Ferguson, J. A. - Call Back Yesterday.txt

  Pharaoh has suffered a great loss with not having her as

  his wife.”

  Meskhenet’s pose shattered. “Ahwere? Ahwere is

  dead? That is not possible! She has not been ill. Was there

  an accident?”

  “It is not for me to say. You must go to your brother

  and comfort him. He will share with you what he knows.”

  She started to go to the door, but Usi’s hand on her

  arm halted her. He pulled her back to him. When she

  opened her mouth to protest, he pressed his mouth over

  hers. She tried to push him away, but he ground his lips

  down into hers. She did not want him to kiss her, and she

  did not want him destroying the warmth left by Kafele’s

  lips.

  Breaking free, she said, “You are not yet my husband,

  Usi.”

  “But I am.”

  “What?” she choked.

  “The Pharaoh and the priests have deemed it to be so.

  With the sunset, you were my wife.” He fingered her hair.

  “Tonight, you will welcome me to your bed.”

  “I cannot be married to you. If Ahwere is dead . . .”

  She bit back a sob as she spoke the words she wanted to

  denounce as a lie. “I am the next oldest. It is my honor to

  be my brother’s wife.”

  “Our marriage was consecrated before your sister’s

  body was discovered.”

  Meskhenet refused to listen more to this serpent who

  seemed to be taking pleasure from her grief. Pushing past

  him, she went out into the corridor. She hurried toward

  her brother’s room. Onuris might be her only hope of

  learning the truth . . . and being done with Usi. ~~~

  ***

  “It’s done! This is the final page.” Darcy rolled the

  page out of the typewriter and set it on top of the pile

  beside it. Over seven hundred pages of manuscript, tracing

  so many words—both common and esoteric—back to their

  roots, was completed. The past weeks had been a delight,

  for they spent hours here working together . . . and then

  the nights in each other’s arms. If Reverend Fairfield had

  been surprised when she remained at Rosewood Hall

  instead of taking his money and leaving, he had kept that

  to himself.

  As she came to her feet, she saw Simon bent over

  another book. She laughed and went to him. Closing the

  book, she set it on the table.

  “It’s done, Simon. Give yourself some time to enjoy

  that before you begin on volume two.”

  “Done?”

  She laughed again. She should have guessed he would

  still be so lost in his studies he would fail to notice the

  typing had stopped. Kneeling beside his chair, she said,

  “It’s done, Simon, and it is excellent. You have made the

  subject of etymology interesting even to me.”

  “Even to you?” He ran his thumb along her jaw. “You

  know you have a mind that is filled with as much curiosity

  as mine. It’s a shame you didn’t have a chance at a better

  education. If you’d been born a man instead of a

  woman—”

  “You wouldn’t want me doing this.” She stretched up

  to meet his lips.

  He stood, drawing her to her feet. Her eyes widened

  at the unadulterated desire on his face. It had not lessened

  after they became lovers, and she was enthralled by the

  depth of his yearning for her. She raised a single fingertip

  to outline his sensuous mouth. Even such a chaste contact

  escalated the longing within her. His mouth covered hers,

  fueling the brisk fire of her impassioned breaths. His hands

  swept up her back, pressing her to him as if he needed to

  relearn every inch of her.

  A throat was cleared, and Darcy looked over her

  shoulder. She stiffened as she saw Hastings and Reverend

  Fairchild by the door. Both men were frowning.

  Simon did not seem bothered by their expressions as

  he announced, “The manuscript is finished.”

  “And you were celebrating its completion,” his father

  said dryly.

  “Among other things.” Simon smiled at Darcy and

  held out his hand. She slipped hers into it, hoping he did

  not notice how it trembled.

  A foolish wish, for he glanced at her, his smile

  faltering. He squeezed her fingers gently, and she

  understood what he did not say. He would not let anything

  diminish his pleasure with finishing his book or with her.

  Reverend Fairfield said smoothly into the silence,

  “Congratulations, Simon. That is a great feat.”

  “Thank you.” He chuckled. “We should have the

  manuscript to Caldwell long before the deadline.”

  The vicar’s glance at the pile of papers on the desk

  sent a sudden chill along Darcy’s spine. “An

  accomplishment indeed,” he said, but his voice was brittle.

  She thought back to her first meeting with the vicar and

  how she had believed he was jealous of Simon’s work.

  Maybe she had not been wrong, as Simon insisted. “Don’t

  you agree, Hastings?”

  “It’s good news.” Hastings clapped his son on the

  shoulder, but the motion almost knocked the older man

  off his feet. His color was a sickly shade of gray, and Darcy

  took his arm and sat him in the chair where Simon had

  been reading. Nodding his thanks to her, he added, “I must

  say I had my doubts about you ever finishing the book on

  time, but you have proven me wrong, son.”

  From the corner of her eye, Darcy saw the vicar’s

  mouth straighten with fury. She turned to look at him, about

  to ask him what was amiss, then saw he was smiling. Had

  she mistaken his expression?

  “This calls for a celebration,” Reverend Fairfield said.

  “I believe you keep your good brandy in the other room,

  don’t you, Simon? Shall we drink to the success you

  deserve?”

  Simon hesitated. “I don’t know if Father—”

  “Nonsense,” Hastings said, struggling to regain his

  feet. With his son’s help, he did. “I shall not miss this

  chance to toast you and your success, Simon.”

  “Will you join us, Darcy?” asked Simon.

  She was about to say she would, but noticed how the

  vicar’s eyes narrowed as he glanced from Simon to her.

  His smile remained, but it was a stiff smile.

  “Go ahead,” she said. “I need to put my typewriter

  away.” She faked a yawn. “It has been a long day, and I

  need to rise early tomorrow to post the manuscript. I bid

  you all a good night.”

  Darcy stood where she was until the men had gone

  out of the office. Pulling a cover over her typewriter, she

  gathered up the manuscript. She might be misjudging the

  vicar horribly, but she could not mistake his venomous

  expression when he had looked at it. She would not risk

  anything happening to Simon’s hard work. No one would

  suspect it was in her portmanteau at the back of her

  dressing room. She would find a way to explain to Simon

  without driving a wedge between him and his cousin,

  whom he seemed to tr
ust.

  Going upstairs, she hurried to her room to hide the

  pages. She placed them carefully in the box. In amazement

  she stared at the top page. She had not typed it, for the

  words went at an angle that revealed the paper had not

  been rolled evenly into the typewriter. Even if she had not

  seen that, she would have known she had not typed it. She

  would have remembered:

  “This book is dedicated to my beloved Darcy. With

  you things I thought impossible are becoming possible

  again.”

  Tears filled her eyes as she pressed her fingertips to

  her lips. She had not guessed Simon would do something

  so wonderful. A twinge cut through her, for she had ruined

  what he meant to be a surprise. She would thank him when

  he came to her room tonight.

  Smiling as she thought of how she would show him

  her delight with the dedication, she readied herself for bed.

  She had no idea how long Simon would stay to celebrate

  with his father and cousin, but she knew he would return

  here as soon as he could for a most private celebration

  with her.

  One hour passed, then another while Darcy sat and

  tried to read. She rose, setting the book on her chair. She

  went to the window. Leaning her elbows on the windowsill,

  she listened to the night breeze whispering through the

  trees. She yawned, then sneezed as the lace on her

  nightgown brushed her nose. Even after an afternoon of

  rapture in Simon’s arms, she was eager for more of his

  caresses. Her fingertip outlined the small panes as she

  delighted in the memory of Simon’s touch. Each time they

  were together, they discovered new ways to express their

  rapture.

  She picked up her notebook from her bed and sighed.

  She wished Meskhenet’s story was not taking such a

  horrible turn. Instead of writing of sorrow, she wanted to

  tell of joy and love and making the impossible possible.

  A motion caught Darcy’s eye. “No!” she gasped. In

  the bright moonlight, she saw a figure she could recognize

  as easily as Meskhenet recognized her lover.

  Just past the terrace below her, but within the arc of

  light from the house, was the thing that had chased her

  through the garden. Here it stood, gazing up at the moon,

  its arms raised. She heard nothing from beyond her open

  window. It simply stood and reached up as if to grasp the

  sky. She looked up, too, and saw the moon was full. Did

  that mean something to it?

  “Who cares?” she whispered. “Let him do whatever

  he wishes.” Maybe she should alert Simon, but if he

  confronted this thing, she was unsure what might happen.

  Another movement below interrupted her thoughts.

  Someone was on the terrace. One of the creature’s

  henchmen?

  A flash of silver glinted in the moonlight. Was that

  Hastings? She had her answer when he turned, revealing

  his face.

  The creature turned toward the house. It waved its

  arms. She frowned. Was it trying to lure someone out into

  the garden? Was it trying to lure Hastings out into the

  garden?

  She gasped when the creature turned and walked into

  the night. Hastings stepped down off the terrace. She called

  his name, but he did not turn.

  Darcy pushed away from the window. Going out there

  was insane. Yet to stay when Hastings was walking right

  toward that creature . . . She must stop him before he

  reached the wood. She shuddered as she imagined the

  creature’s evil hiss near her ear.

  Pulling her wrapper over her nightgown, she slipped

  her feet into a pair of soft shoes. She looked out again and

  saw the creature now visible as a shifting shadow near the

  rosebushes. Was the thing waiting to ambush Hastings as

  it had her?

  A bright light flashed in front of her, and she held up

  her arm to guard her eyes. Looking cautiously over it, she

  realized it was the ball of light floating right in front of

  her. She raised a hand toward it, for it had never come so

  close, but it edged away.

  “What are you trying to tell me?” she asked.

  She got no answer, although she had not expected any.

  “I’ll be back as soon as I halt Hastings.” She took a

  step toward the door.

  The light flared more brightly again.

  “I know it’s dangerous out there, but he is Simon’s

  father.” Her voice broke. “Simon loves him so much

  because Hastings is the only family he has left. I will not

  cause Simon to suffer more by standing here and doing

  nothing while Hastings might be walking into trouble.”

  She stepped around the light. It chased her, trying to

  get in front of her. She threw open the door and rushed out

  into the hall. It did not follow. When she reached to close

  the door, she saw no sign of it.

  Darcy did not have time to figure out why it had

  approached her and acted so oddly. She ran to Simon’s

  door, on the off-chance he might have come upstairs and

  stopped there before coming to join her in her bed. He did

  not answer her knock. The corridor was deserted. She

  hurried down the stairs. Where was Fraser? The foyer was

  empty, so she rushed to Simon’s office.

  Darcy was astonished when she discovered his office

  was empty. She whirled. Her wrapper struck a stack of

  books, scattering them across the floor. She waited for

  Simon to come through the door to see what was causing

  the noise.

  When the hallway door remained closed, she threw

  open the French door and rushed outside, calling Hastings’

  name. No one answered. Not from the garden nor from

  the house.

  A motion deep in the garden drew her eyes in the

  direction of the maze. A glint of silver sent a cramp into

  her stomach. That must be Hastings. It moved, and she

  saw what could have been a lantern.

  It took every bit of her willpower to force her feet

  down the terrace steps. Wet grass clung to her wrapper.

  She scanned the garden. It was empty. Where was

  Hastings?

  A glow was fading into the woods beyond the maze.

  Then, closer, she saw another one. A lantern. Was Hastings

  following the creature?

  “Hastings!” Her shout must have reached him, but no

  reply came back. If he happened upon the creature and its

  companions in the wood, she feared what might happen.

  He was an old man, and his heart was weak. The very

  sight of the creature could bring on a fatal attack.

  Darcy looked back at the house. The only lights

  burning were the ones in her room and the one in Simon’s

  office. Had he returned there?

  She ran back up the steps and opened the door. The

  office was as empty as it had been before. Throwing open

  the other door, she called as loudly as she was able, “Simon,

  where are you?”

  Her voice echoed up through the grand staircase at

  the front of the house. She waited a minute, t
hen another.

  No answer. She called again, and again she got no answer.

  It was almost as if everyone had vanished.

  Slowly she walked back out to the terrace. A suspicion

  she did not want to have taunted her. If Simon was part of

  the cult in the woods, he might be there. She could not

  believe he was a member of the group led by that thing.

  Maybe he was chasing after his father to save Hastings

  from what awaited in the wood.

  She paused by the wall, wishing she could be certain

  Simon was in pursuit of his father. Then, she would be

  able to remain here, safe from that creature. But Simon

  had not believed her when she spoke of what was among

  the trees. Maybe he had no idea what he was about to

  confront.

  Darcy was down the stairs and crossing the garden

  before she could persuade herself to return to her room.

  Wishing she had found someone—anyone—to help her

  stop Hastings from walking into madness, she hurried past

  the rosebushes. She saw a light ahead of her and shouted

  his name again. The light continued toward the wood

  without pausing.

  Then, it vanished.

  She gasped. Had Hastings heard her and doused the

  lantern to keep her from following? Had he encountered

  the beast or one of its followers? Or, and she hoped this

  was what had happened, was the light concealed by the

  trees at the edge of the wood?

  Only her determination to protect Hastings kept her

  from turning back when she reached the wood. The

  bobbing of the lantern she guessed was Hastings’ had

  reappeared, not so far away, and she might be able to reach

  him before he encountered someone else.

  She feared it was too late when she heard chanting in

  that strange language. Simon should be here. He knew

  many dialects, so he might be able to guess more than the

  pair of phrases that sounded like Latin. She frowned. Even

  as little as she knew of the language, she could recognize

  it as Latin, but the words were strung together like nonsense

  sounds.

  “Hastings?” she whispered beneath the voices. He

  would hear her only if he was nearby, but he must be close

  because his lantern had come this way.

  The lantern appeared ahead of her to her right. She

  crept closer. Her breath sounded like a shout in her ears.

  Her wrapper snagged, and she yanked it loose. Material