The nightmare refused to set him free. Mired on the battlefield of Balaklava, Theodore could feel its charred darkness invading his every pore. His every thought. Eternal seconds made awakening seem less certain. Impossible. Smoke crept along the valley, reaching for him with gnarled fingers of ash. Tormenting his subconscious was no longer enough.
This time, the terror had come to claim the whole of his mind.
Father’s polished shoe emerged from the smoke and crushed a bloodied saber. “If you weren’t a faulty soldier, your comrades wouldn’t have perished.”
Theodore’s gaze fell to an oriental rug in the study of Kingsley Court.
Breath scalded the back of his neck, reeking of sulfuric scorn. “If you weren’t a faulty son, your mother wouldn’t have died in my arms.”
Theodore remained unmoving, face buried in the rug, for he knew what came next.
Some memories one could never forget.
Cold fingers gripped Theodore’s chin in a vice and forced him to his feet, leaving him no choice but to stare into green eyes that flashed with rage. The eyes of his father.
Apprehension curdled in Theodore’s stomach.Just say it and be done.
“I’d trade your life in a second if it would restore the life of my Theodora.” Father shoved his face away like a dirty rag.
Theodore couldn’t prevent the onslaught of tears, but he tried to hide them. Bury them in hands now quite small. Those of a child. When he looked up, Father was so much taller, looming over him with a shadowed scowl. From behind his back, Father produced a switch.
Theodore whimpered, his voice now that of his ten-year-old self. “I’m sorry.”
“Stop your blubbering, boy.” Father raised his arm above his head and brought the switch down. Once. Twice. The switch sliced into Theodore’s chest.
Once, twice, he begged to be pardoned for being born.
For killing the mother he’d never known. “I’m sorry ... so sorry.”
But in the terror, as in reality, he was never quite sorry enough.
Never quite good enough to bear his mother’s name.
The switch struck without sign of relenting. Shredding Theodore’s shirt. Slashing his chest. As the first drop of blood trickled down, the study’s plush carpet vanished. The valley of death reemerged. Still the switch tore into him. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
With a guttural scream, Theodore fell to the ground. “Stop! Father ... please.”
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
The switch found his heart.
Theodore wrenched awake and grasped for something solid. Something real. Something to prove the nightmare was over.Please, let it be over!
A hand patted his forearm. “All is well, Mr. Arthur. It was only a bad dream.” Miss Stanton offered a reassuring smile.
When had he grabbed hold of her shoulders? Theodore released her, trembling from the inside out as he recoiled into his seat and leaned into the chill of a nearby window. A salty taste on his lips explained the dampness of his face. He’d wept. Rusted cogs, he’d wept! And Miss Stanton had seen everything. She’d seen the pitiful state of his broken soul.
Voices floated into his awareness, speaking English and French. The other travelers huddled in the far corner of the railway carriage, watching him wide-eyed and talking amongst themselves in hushed tones.
“He’s succumbed to railway madness, I’m certain.”
“We need to get out before the screaming lunatic murders us all!”
He’d screamed? Theodore’s fingers dug into his cushioned seat.Hold it together, man. Shove the faulty pieces backin the clock casing. Lock them away so all theysee is the handcrafted face of Arthur. A man withoutnightmares. The man you used to be.His lips parted to allay the fears of his fellow passengers, but no words emerged. No smile formed. The pieces were too heavy, too many. Too much.
He couldn’t hold it together this time.
The door rattled. “Oh, why must they lock these carriages?”
