Broken Dove (Fantasyland 4)

Yes, he knew Ilsa.

“You know who I am,” I whispered.

“I do,” he agreed and his eyes may have been shuttered, but he couldn’t quite mask the vein of grief in his voice.

“Does it hurt you to look at me?” I asked. “If so, I can—” I started to offer, beginning to take a step back but he lifted a hand, palm up toward me.

“I cared for her. She meant much to me. Her loss is still felt by all who knew her. But you are not her. Apollo told all the men who you are and where you’re from. He warned us how this would feel. We’re prepared.”

I took this as indication the other Ilsa was beloved by his men and thus, obviously, had been around to meet them.

More questions flooded my brain but now was not the time to ask them.

Then again, I was thinking there would never be a time. Not with this lot.

“Prepared or not, I’ll try to keep myself to myself,” I told him.

“That’s not nec—”

“Please,” I said softly. “I can imagine how this feels for you. If you’d do me the kindness of trying to imagine how it feels for me, simply standing here talking and breathing causing people to re-experience grief. It doesn’t feel nice and, not to be rude or anything, I’d rather not be around it.”

He took in a short breath and nodded.

“Can you tell me one thing before I leave you be?” I asked.

“Of course,” he answered.

“The staff in this house,”—I swept a hand out— “did they know her?”

“Apollo acquired this house after she left us, madam,” he shared.

I nodded.

That I also decided to take as good, not to mention indication that the clothes I was wearing were most likely not hers.

Then, feeling awkward, I stammered, “I’ll, uh…I don’t know how long what needs to happen will take or what I need to…well, acquire, but I’m assuming someone will be able to communicate to you when I’m ready for us to leave.”

“Yes, they’ll tell us and I’ll share it with you so you have plenty of time to prepare.”

I nodded.

He took a step back, indicating the door behind him with his hand. “The men are outside. Would you give them the honor of meeting them?”

I shook my head. “Not now. Please?”

“Of course,” he replied, his voice gentle.

“Thank you.” I swallowed. “I’ll just…” Another sweep of my arm, indicating the stairs.

But I trailed off because I had no clue what I’d just do.

I hadn’t looked at all of the books in the library, but the ones I looked at were in a language I couldn’t read. There was no TV. There was nothing around us but what appeared to be a barn, a small square building with smoke coming out the top and nothing else. Not even a formal garden to wander through.

I was alone with nothing to do. Those who I could speak to knew and loved the other me so I couldn’t be around them without causing them pain. The ones who didn’t know her didn’t understand me.

I didn’t have anything to do or anyone to share my time with.

This was sad and it sucked.

It had always sucked.

But there was one thing about it.

I was used to it.

“I’ll just…be going,” I finished.

Derrik nodded.

I gave him a small smile.

Then I went.

* * * * *

I was lying on the lounge in my preposterously fabulous bedroom lamenting my plight as I’d been doing all day, when I heard it.

It was dark, late, I was fatigued but I couldn’t sleep because I was sad, pissed and worried.

But the noise sounded like what I guessed a horse and carriage would sound like on a stone road and I was curious to see if I was right. Not to mention, curious at what a horse and carriage looked like.

So I pushed myself up and made my way to the French doors.

I was wearing a nightgown, of which I now had three, all my own (I knew this because I’d tried them all on and they all fit). It was a satin the deep purple hue of blackberries and it fell to my ankles. It also had a panel of same-color lace that started narrow under my arm and got wider as it followed the length of the gown to the hem.

In other words, it was the shit.

That said, it was bedroom-only wear, the curtains were sheer and several of the lamps in the room had been lit, giving the entire room a soft glow that would mean, if you were outside, you could see in.

Therefore, I approached the French doors carefully, coming at them from the side, pulling the sheers open a few inches and peering out.

The outside was ablaze too (or, as ablaze as you could get without electricity). I could see a woman alighting from a black, covered carriage; the man in rough clothing the wardrobe people for a movie would dress a peasant in at the seat in front, not bothering to help her down.

But I didn’t have time for the man.

I was staring at the woman.

She had dark hair swept up in an elaborate updo of big curls. I could only see her profile but I could tell her makeup was far from light. In fact, it was borderline gaudy. Her gown was ostentatious, if seemingly well-made. It wasn’t borderline over the top, it just was. And her cle**age was—no other word for it—indecent. Last, she was wearing a lot of jewelry which pushed gaudy to tawdry.

Regardless of all this, she was beautiful. Beyond beautiful. Breathtaking. Her looks so lush, her curves so abundant, she was a knockout.

What the hell? Who was she?

She moved to the curving steps that led up to the house just as a tall, broad-shouldered man I’d never seen before with burnished, dark red hair came out of the house and walked down the steps. Not surprisingly, he was in romance hero clothes. I couldn’t see his face, just the top of his head, and he approached her directly.

I watched them have a conversation, her gesturing, him shaking his head.

Her head tipped to the side, she smiled a coquettish smile and said something that made him dig in his pocket. He pulled out a small pouch, opened it, and got something out, placing it in her upturned palm which she instantly closed.

My breath stuttered.

Holy cow.

Her eyes lifted to my window, her face wistful and I stopped breathing altogether when her eyes met mine. The wistfulness left her expression and a knowing catty smile curved her mouth.

She lifted her hand and gave me a finger wave.

I quickly stepped away from the window and deep-breathed.

“Holy cow,” I whispered.

Here and in my world, hell, anywhere, I knew what she was.