The inside of the carriage fell silent once more as they simply stared at each other.
Transparent sunlight seeped into the quiet. Over her powdered white face, over the purpling bruise around her eyes, over her blood-encrusted lips.
Even in such a wretched state, the woman was beautiful. Edgar suddenly felt the urge to snatch off that ridiculous hat.
He loosened the tie choking his neck. Maybe it was the early summer heat, but a thirst had crept in.
“Mr. Lancelot.”
The woman, taking his prolonged silence as rejection, called out to him anxiously. Perhaps, if she’d sounded a little more desperate, it would’ve been more pleasant to hear.
“Edgar.”
Feigning composure, Edgar slowly pronounced his name.
“That’s enough. Edgar.”
Those bright red lips, unfitting for the moment, closed. The scenery outside the window began to shift.
The carriage, having left the tall buildings behind, now began to cut through…
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Emilybronte
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