The Unselected Journals of Emma M. Lion: Vol. 8

by Beth Brower

Once we’d dropped down into a hollow, and enough trees flanked our way, once we were out of sight of anyone on the lane or at the parsonage, I pulled back on Pierce’s hand. “Pierce,” I said. He kept walking. “Niall!” Three quick steps and I pulled myself equal to, then ahead of Pierce, turning and forcing him to stop. He let go of my hand. The deep well of his mind released him. He found himself. He saw me. “Are you all right?” he asked, half panicked. His hands came up to the sides of my face. “Are you all right!” “Yes. Niall, yes! I’m fine. Breathe. You’re not…breathing. Islington is here. And Hawkes. We’re all well. I am well.” Pierce truly saw my face. His hands dropped away, silver eyes ascertaining if I was telling the truth—that I was uninjured, unharmed. His chest rose and fell. He took a step back. He looked about, the surrounds terribly familiar, the river we stood alongside likely where he had almost been killed. How familiar, how unsettling. The anger I hoped was dissipating had not. It had been hidden by bewilderment but was now rising. Like the sour smell of smoke burning something that ought not have touched a flame. But he was with friends. Friends who claimed no touch on his previous life. And so Pierce took a breath, then another. He took a step back. “My apologies,” he said, holding up his hand, so taut the veins crossing over the bones on the back were like ropes. The muscles in his neck tightened. His chest rose and fell. “My apologies, truly.” And he ...