Love and the Luftstreitkrafte

Part 9: The Return

On Sunday April 21st 1918 I had my final vision.

I didn't visit my mother that Sunday. I had taken a few days leave, and Rosalind and I were staying in Gretna Hall, just north of the Scottish border.

I brought Rosalind tea in bed. She stirred when I set it on the nightstand. It was late morning and I had already drunk mine. Breakfast tea, in my opinion, follows the same rules as gas masks and life jackets: it is acceptable to serve yourself before helping others.

I liked how her wild hair spilled all over the pillows like a woman in a Rossetti painting. I thought again about asking her to model for me. It was a more appropriate time. Maybe once she'd woken up properly.

Just then a sickening pain exploded through my chest. For a moment I seriously believed I was having a heart attack. Then came the vertigo, and a vision of hurtling towards the ground. It ended abruptly with an awful, crunching pain like being punched in the face.

I hunched over, stunned, pressing my hands to my face.

"Ollie? What's wrong?" Rosalind drew me to sit on the bed with her. Pinkerton's nose nudged my elbow. I had thought it a little odd when Rosalind decided to bring the cat on our elopement, but now I was glad of his company.

I sat for a minute, while Rosalind traced comforting circles on my back.

"I think he's dead," I said finally, my voice muffled.

"Who, the Red Baron?"

"Mm."

Rosalind let out a long breath. "We did it, then." Her hand stilled on my back. "Look at me, Oliver."

I lifted my head, and she looked searchingly into my eyes, fingertips on my temples.

"Alright. You're alright. But I want to strengthen the wards just in case. I knew it would happen here..." Rosalind got up, in her long nightgown and stockinged feet, to rummage through our luggage.

"What are you doing?" I asked, though I had a suspicion. She had already put some chalk markings on the door and tucked herbs by the window as soon as we had gotten to our room.

"It's probably fine, but I'm not the only spiritualist." Rosalind took some candles from her bags and started placing them around the room. "I just want to take some precautions, in case he consulted someone. We should be fairly safe after four days, anyway."

"Safe from the Baron's vengeful ghost?" I surmised as I petted Pinkerton.

Rosalind fiddled with a book of matches, looking unusually vulnerable. "It's not likely...I just don't want to take any chances."

"You're the expert," I said, smiling in what I hoped was an encouraging way.

She gave that complicated, twisty-gremlin look that I still didn't know how to decipher.

"What?" I asked, laughing.

"Nothing. Well...sometimes I feel like this is too good to be true. Like it's all going to collapse."

I knew exactly what she meant. But though the thought often crossed my mind, I was getting better at ignoring it. "Yeah. I hope not, but...maybe."

Rosalind gave a small smile, lit her last candle, and came back to sit next to me on the bed, leaning against my shoulder.

"So, we should stay here within your wards for the next four days?" I asked lightly.

"Oh, it's not that serious. As long as we—" Rosalind caught my sideways glance. "I mean, we could. If we wanted to. Just to be extra careful."