Sentenced to Life

3

Emory checked into the hotel, getting two rooms. Silas got in his knees and kissed the ground when they arrived arriving thag she was a madwoman and should've been thrown away with him. She chose not to take offense to that. Instead she quickly began a search. There should've been some documents, especially if he was a count. Silas Christopher Maxwell, she searched his name and the words Garett Prison. She frowned finding many results.

Including a newspaper from 1861. Count Silas Maxwell, jailed for the murders of his wife and daughter. She swallowed. Okay. Maybe he was just a lunatic with google. Anyone could've found this, and claimed to be him.

But there was a photograph. And even through the dirt she could see the resemblance to the spritely younger man, with dark curls and a clean face dressed in finery. She sighed and knocked on the hotel door next to her. Silas cursed audibly on the other side before opening it.

"I have figured out the bath and the shaving instruments though I fear I may be in need of a medic after my attempt," he winced his jaw covered in bloody knocks. His towel wrapped siding his lower half. Now she could see it clearly. He looked just like himself although a bit skinner.

"I've even come across a a rough cloth to wash my teeth with."

She winced. "I'll show you what a toothbrush is in a little bit. First, let's start recording what you know." Silas nodded and sat down at the table nodding at her to take a seat.

"I must thank you for taking pity upon me. I know I was unsightly and my take a little far fetched."

Emory set up her camera and pressed record. "For the record, what is your name and occupation?"

Silas stared off into space. "My name is Count Silas Christopher Maxwell. As for an occupation, I am no so ill-bred as to have one. I am a count."

Emory nodded, remembering that self made men were just coming about at the time and born wealthy men and women looked down on them.

"Did you own slaves?" She asked harshly.

Silas raised his brows. "No. I am from London, and I moved to New York in 1825, hoping to escape the court and it's wagging tongue. But I never much cared for the entire thing it seemed...barbaric. I made my money in trade, art and jewels mostly. My father left a hefty sum when he passed of yellow fever 1816. I did not need to trade."

Silas tapped his fingers looking inquisitively at her. "I assume it's no longer allowed on the colonies."

She shook her head. "No it's not. And we're not colonies anymore. Not even in your time."

He waved his hands dismissively. "England is your mother and you must return to your mother at some point."

Emory raised her brow. "Well...it's been 400 years."

He frowned. "Right then. Perhaps you are motherless children."

"That seems apt." She agreed.

He raised his brows and nodded. "I was married young," he continued. "A dukes daughter named Marion. I had a child. A girl. Delilah was her name. We were not in love, but we got on. Life was not wholly unpleasant and yet...seemed lacking somehow."

He shook his head. "Scarlett fever took my mother. Yellow fever my father. At the age of nine I married my wife to secure my hood on the family title. And from there...I don't quite remember."

Emory wrote furiously. Just in case her camera failed or she lost the footage.

"Tell me of what has happened in the world? Other than horseless carriages and instantly hot water. A pleasant surprise." He remarked.

His posture was perfect, his tone elegant, long thin fingers intertwined on the table, his elbows handing of it.

"A lot has happened. There have been a few kings and queens since your time. Cell phones, tvs, the internet. I wouldn't know where to start."

He pointed at the camera. "Start there. What is it?"

Emery glanced back at the camera. "It's a camera. A video camera. It's recording us...like moving picture."

He cocked his head curiously. "Hm. A moving picture. I'm not sure I can quite comprehend that."

Emory smiled. "I...I can see why. I mean...it seems almost like...you're telling the truth. But that would be absurd that would be impossible. You would be...almost 300 years old."

Silas looked out bitterly. "I am unsure of what it was. A witch, or perhaps god himself. I cannot say for certain. But what I can say is...I have more time left in my punishment. And I will undoubtedly be forced to serve it." He stated solemnly.

The two set in a contemplative silence, the camera still rolling catching the peace between the two strangers, something Emory would look back on in a strange sort of nostalgia.

Silas' eyes swept over the Emory's form, now that she was focused on writing, he had the privilege of taking in her form. Her skin deep and rich, her eyes dark, and endless like the night he'd been bathed in. Her hair pulled back from her face, spirals of darkness, highlighted only by golden rings. She wore pants, something he hadn't seen but was quickly getting used to. Her hand wrote furiously. She could write. Read, and had an eloquent way of speaking.

Her lips were full, different colors, an intriguing sight. Everything about her seemed intriguing, even to him, a spectacle in and of himself a man sentenced to life, lost in time.

"You mentioned the ferryman. What do you believe religion wise?" She asked suddenly.

Silas cold blue eyes settled on the window watching the cars. "I consider myself crucified by my very savior, cast out by god and hidden away from His sight. For that fact, for the fact I had prayed until my voice gave out for redemption, for death—for that reason alone I consider that perhaps I am a murderer."

He looked at her, his eyes wide with something like terror or perhaps madness. "For I must believe that God has been convinced I am guilty, or he would not have abandoned me so, as he abandoned my mother, my father, my wife and my child. Surely, one of us, must be spared even if me, the least deserving among them."

Emory's pen paused. She swallowed and looked up at him.

"Have you ever thought...that maybe this was your salvation? After all...they would've all been dead anyway. But here you are. Alive."

Silas scoffed, his lips shaking as he spoke. "This existence is far from salvation. Rather, it is more akin to hell on gods earth. And if I am uniquely qualified for such a select method of torture that God himself must oversee...I cannot speak to the state of my soul. But I must believe I deserve it. It's all that I can do to maintain my sanity."

Emory did not want to test the limits of his sanity. So she pressed her lips shut and continued writing.