June 14, 1605 London, England
Beatrix hasn’t dreamed in a hundred years.
Not that she can remember, anyway. And she would remember, she’s certain, if her other dreams had been like this one. So real, she swears the scent of oak wood and wool lingers on the pillow next to hers. So real, her heart breaks a little—even now—when she realizes it isn’t.
William is dead.
She slides her hand across the smooth expanse of linen, searches for the warm body next to hers. Her fingers brush cool metal, and the unexpected sensation jars her from her half-asleep state.
The gray light of predawn London struggles through the room’s grime-coated window.
Beatrix can barely make out the constellation of coins scattered across the mattress beside her.
She pushes her wild chestnut hair out of her face and props herself up on her elbow, considering the coins.
She hadn’t sold herself to the man last night. She just didn’t want to be alone.
Nights were always harder than days. When London slept, and she could not, Beatrix felt that implacable loneliness in her bones.
Last night, it sat in her heart like a dark pit, the edges crumbling away, threatening to swallow her whole.
She told herself it had nothing to do with the day.
The man had simply been her type: tall and lean, with a knowing smile and a spark in his eye that told her he was trouble.
And trouble, Beatrix had discovered, was the best way to forget.
She forgot his name easily enough. Forgot, as she matched him drink for drink, that everyone she has ever known is gone. Forgot, as she fell into bed with him, that everyone she has ever loved is dead. Forgot, wrapped in the darkness with him, that she is to blame for all of it.
The sun has risen, and so have the memories.
William, leaning against an ancient oak, grinning like a fool at her muddy dress and disheveled hair.
The way he looked at her the night he swore they were not so different.
The scent of the forest on his skin when he pulled her into the steps of their first dance.
Into him. Into the rest of their lives together.
Her heart—the wicked, wretched thing—betrays her. Sends a smile to her lips even as the memories tear her open.
Beatrix buries the thought of him, tries to think of nothing and no one. She gathers the coins, shoves them under her pillow, and pulls the heavy quilt over her head. Sleeping in a bed was a rare luxury. She refuses to waste another second of it dwelling on her past.
Stillness settles over the room. Beatrix closes her eyes, wills sleep to return, to plunge her into oblivion. A whisper fills the hollow spaces she has chased her memories from, in her own weary voice.
One hundred years and one day.
She really should stop counting.