Page 74 of Adam, Mine

He had never felt so lonely. Not on the first train from Germany, not on the boat hiding from that family. Not in Alain’s hands, not during his crimes in Geneva. Not when he lay on the ground curled around Agatha’s doll had he ever felt so isolated from all men.

He smelled, even to his sympathizers, of blood that could not be washed, and there was no one left who could understand that he smelled like justice. More, did the rules of a place he could never return matter? Where the community that would have held him, would have cried out with rage for him as he sought his retribution . . . were not the ones out here in this wide world who could touch him gently? He wanted to be touched gently.

Before he came to this place, Elias’s world was so small.

This is a thing one cannot know until they leave.

His world was still that small in Geneva.

Now he had no home.

The thread in him started to vibrate again as Elias pressed his forehead to the frosted ground. He did not have tears for this, but he let the hole inside him grow wider and deeper until it swallowed him entirely. He shook and rocked back and forth in the moonlight. He was alone, he was alone, he was alone.

Elias froze to death in the grass . . .

`and woke the next day.

Green

Ireland was not far away. The boat ride would take half a day so Elias had some time to burn.

After he had thawed fully and stretched out, his clothes were drenched. He could tell some animal had been licking his frozen face, which was disgusting.

He asked after weather in the far north and was told it was colder there but not as cold as Russia. Elias purchased a new set of clothes, wool and itchy, but they protected him from the elements.

Elias dragged his fingertips across the heartstring as he sat in a tavern and ate hunks of flavorful sheep. Victor was somewhere feeling petulant and perhaps a bit nauseous. He sent Victor a twang of amusement and got back sharp irritation. Elias smiled. Despite it being Victor, it felt nice to have someone to tease.

He boarded the boat, warm and full, with a lighter heart than he had the previous night. He was looking forward to Brogan who “spake German” and made Ayan’s bright eyes twinkle.

Ireland

When Victor reached Brogan’s home, he nearly missed it. It blended so well into the hills. The only reason his eyes caught the glass of a window reflecting the sunshine was because he was looking for it.

Brogan’s house was built into a side of grass and covered with weeds. He didn’t have a small farm like Willem or a gate to the property, just a wooden door, fully green with moss, and a bell by the knocker.

Victor looked around, then shrugged and tied his horse to the door handle. The nearest tree was about fifty feet away.

He rang the bell, then stood back a few paces, in case Brogan was in the same mood that Ayan had been.

After a moment, the door pushed open.

Brogan was . . . particular looking. It took Victor a few moments of silence and staring to realize that Brogan was a woman. A bearded woman but a woman nonetheless.

She was looking back at him, expressionless. Not even curious the way Bradley had been or full of pity like Willem.

“My sincerest apologies for bothering you,” Victor started. “Can I ask a minute of your time?”

“You missed him by a week,” Brogan replied instead. Brogan’s voice was deep and rough, but still it was a woman’s voice.

Victor didn’t know what to say.

Brogan looked over at Victor’s horse. She was a red mare, a bit old but had been very kind with him. Not bucking even when it had taken him longer than most to climb to the saddle.

Brogan reached over and patted her nose gently.

“You can have her if you like,” Victor said.

“How will you get back?”