A haunted hall, I’m trapped within, never to escape
Was this my father’s fate, a life he grew to hate?
I should die before I wake, a welcome destination
I only stay for those who love me, to save them from their hurt
Mother, dearest Mother, this pain that splits my brain
Would not you wish much more for me
Of course you would, I know this
So I’ll live this fate I’ll grow to hate, ’tis my only solution
Peyton thumbed through the pages of juvenile poetry, attempting to find the next actual entry, her eyes growing heavy. She hadn’t slept much the night before. A couple of hours at most, and it was catching up. “It’s all poetry,” she said.
“You’re exhausted. I’ll take over.” Alistar removed the journal from her hands. “Did you get any sleep last night?”
“Not much. I fell asleep at a desk in a hidden office.”
“Hidden office?”
She yawned. “Under the staircase. I only just discovered it.” She curled up on her side next to him, her cheek on her folded arm, her eyes closing.
He pulled his gaze away from her, smiling. “Here it is.”
24 May 1854
I saw her again. For three years, I’ve caught sight of her and the caravan in which she lives. It comes through the land perhaps twice per year. I wonder what she thinks when she sees me watching. I know she’s seen me. After that first year, watching from under the violent old elm. Whatever happened to cause this curse happened here. I would swear to it. She’s beautiful. Perhaps a year or two my junior. I’ve tried smiling at her, but she turns her nose up as if she were royalty. I’m a viscount, a future earl. But I cannot get her from my mind.
The open land spreads wide and rolling
The wanderers, the caravans, the pretty girls are sprawling
I wander by the caravans and can’t retain my wit,
The girl I see, so dark and pretty, fells me, and I sit
Wait! She says, yet I cannot
She disappears from sight
Wait! I say, yet she cannot
And there we cross at night
16 August 1854
’Tis taken three months, but I did it. I met her. She’s Romani, and I’m enthralled. I am ten and six. I will come into my majority in two years. Her name is Sabina. I take pleasure in hiding her from Great Grandmother. Someday I shall marry her! We shall break the curse. The curse… I must be delusional. I cannot tell her of the curse. She would never marry me then. How can I ever think to marry anyone with such an affliction?
What followed was a series of stanzas centered around love, affection, and affliction. Alistar raised his eyes to the ceiling of the canopy. “I think we can safely surmise the seventh Earl of Griston did not come into his skill with words for another few years, if he ever did at all.”
A light feminine snore met his observation.
There was something significant about the previous passage. He moved off the bed and dug in the nightstand for a notepad and pen. Too easy. A sense of urgency pulsed in his veins. He found a drawing pad and pencil in his studio and hurried back, despising every second away from Peyton.
He slipped back into bed beside her and made a list:Sabina, Romani, Curse. He set the pad and pencil on the bedside table and went back to the journal.
