The Edge of Hell: The Mitchell Brothers Series Book One

22

Later that evening, after everyone had retired to their bedrooms, Wolstan, still dressed in his untucked shirt and trousers, sat at his desk. He stared at the half-sheet of parchment on which he'd boldly scribbled: 'I love you, Mae' and slowly set his pen aside.

He'd spent several hours devising multiple grand gestures to tell Mae before settling on the simple statement he intended to slip under her door.

There was something symbolic about it that he thought she would appreciate. And if not, at the very least, it would draw her into the hallway where he could tell Mae to her face that her happiness had become his own.

How, somewhere within the past six months, she had become his reason for existing—as necessary in his life as breathing, eating, and sleeping. And that when she smiled at him, he felt it down to the darkest, furthest reaches of his soul.

Wolstan grinned and drummed his fingers on his desk, tempted to give Mae the note now instead of intercepting her tomorrow when she delivered their morning drawing as had been his initial plan.

The clock on his bedside table let out a solitary, delicate chime, drawing his attention. Half past eleven, which meant there was a chance she was still awake. More than likely sewing the finishing touches on her dress for the Christmas social now that the gowns for the wedding were complete.

It was what he'd overheard her and his mama discussing at dinner, and honestly, Wolstan couldn't wait until both events were done with so they would have more free time to spend with one another again.

Because while he still had rough days and nights when the terrors of Andersonville seemed inescapable, there was no doubt every moment with Mae, the broken bits inside him were slowly healing, and now his dreams were mainly filled with her.

Grabbing the paper as he stood, Wolstan folded it once and approached his door. He pressed his ear to listen for any noises in the hallway before twisting the knob and pulling it open.

The amber glow from his desk lamp flooded the hallway at a distorted angle, ending midway and leaving everything beyond its paltry reach in a silvery moonlit shadow.

Wolstan's heart slammed against his ribs. His mouth grew parched as desert sands, his palms became sweaty, and his stomach flipped thousands of successive somersaults with dizzying speed.

Though emboldened by the sliver of candlelight beneath her door, Wolstan hesitated. He glanced at the other bedrooms lining either side of the hallway to ensure it was clear.

His mind raced a million miles a minute, leaving him unable to devise a reasonable excuse should anyone choose that inopportune moment to leave their room, see him standing with a piece of paper in his hand, and inquire what he was up to.

Forcing a swallow, Wolstan squared his shoulders and crossed to Mae's bedroom. He winced when the floorboards creaked beneath his weight, betraying his presence, and slowly released a protracted sigh, stooping to slip his note under the door.

He straightened to his full height and pressed his ear to her door to determine if she was awake or if he should return to his room and attempt to find some sleep.

The silence was deafening, Wolstan's disappointment crushing, and he bit back a sigh as he took a step toward his bedroom.

But then he froze.

Mae's bed squeaked, followed by the soft thud of bare feet crossing to the door, the unmistakable rasp of paper, a soft feminine gasp, and then the door's abrupt opening.

Faint candlelight spilled across the floorboards, falling short of mingling with the muted edges of lamplight from his bedroom, leaving a narrow swath of darkness down the middle of the hallway.