For Phoeb–
“No!” shouted Sir Edmund at his shoulder. “I’ll take care of this.” He grabbed Benson’s neckcloth. Drew back his broad knuckles clenched to white… “This is for blackmailing my Letty.” And crunched them into Benson’s face with such force that the murderer’s head left a dent in the plasterwork as he sagged to the floor.
Sir Edmund stood back, neatened his jacket, realigned his waistcoat and set his cravat to rights. “Well, that was quite a morning. Good work, Number Five, and I’d say you’re due an apology...”
But Hugh was gazing to Amelia who’d risen and was tying the wrists of a ranting Mrs Benson to a chair with aplomb.
Hugh needed to hold her. See if she was hurt. Kiss her.
He frowned and stared down as his boots refused to lift.
Each limb felt as though formed of sodden flour.
His arm speared with pain, rupturing as if wire tightened around it. He swallowed, throat dry, that vague ache to his head now gouging a fissure.
“Number Five?”
He turned his head but the room tipped, nausea pitched and his knees failed him, crumpling to the floor.
Then Amelia was there, amber eyes so wide but…shadowed figures surrounded her – cavorting and ghoulish.
His lips parted to tell her he was fine, he was always fine, just needed some sleep and a stiff brandy, but his tongue refused to comply. Confused and lame.
“Hugh!” He heard fright in that voice. Such a chill palm on his forehead. “You’re burning up, Hugh! Why didn’t you say!”
Amber eyes… With fewer flecks of gold today, just profound amber.
His head fell into softness, muffled words drifted.
Looked up to Amelia as she cradled him in her beautiful lap.
Wanted to say…
Everything.
But his lids drooped.
Her lips moved, though no words that he could hear.
She blurred, those shadows crowding her, and he clung to her eyes, desperate to focus.
Those amber eyes.
How he loved her amber eyes…
How he loved Amelia.
His own drifted shut.
Yet still that amber. Vibrant and aflame.
And then…
Then…
Those shadows snuffed that also…
