Bad Prophecies (draft 1)

XI

In those days, for a marriage to be valid, it had to be consummated. How does one consummate a marriage when completely sexless? Having magic does help, a lot. I'm only half-joking, of course. Our honeymoon was at my house in Devon. First, there was a train from London to Dartmouth, and then a cab from Dartmouth to the townhouse in Torquay. The train ride from London was just like any other train ride we've taken.
"Alexander, what are you doing?"
He was balancing his wedding ring on his nose.
"Practicing."
"For what exactly?"
He just shrugged.
"You'll be the death of me." I sighed.
"And how will that work?"
"Someway."
"Would you mix holy water and hellfire?"
"No, that doesn't work."
"Why not?"
"It says it in the prophecy book."
"What prophecy book?"
"In 'The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch', the most famous statement of all is- 'The creature born of Heaven and Hell is to be called the Nephalem. They will be unharmed by the water of the Lord and the fire of Satan, the only way for them to perish is unbeknownst to me.'-"
"It's terribly unsettling you know that."
I smiled brightly and kicked his foot.
Upon arriving in Dartmouth, we flagged down a cab and got on.
"D'you like horses?" Alex asked me, once he had helped me on.
"If that's a deal breaker for you, you should've asked me before the wedding."
"It's not, I'm just wondering."
"Well, I was never particularly fond of horses but I never exactly hated them."
The townhouse in Torquay wasn't large, hardly more, hardly less than a cottage, as it was all I required in my days as a bachelorette.
By then it was already night. We'd been travelling since late morning, and immediately went to bed. Our first night together was more comical than I expected. The same awkward understanding and ineptness that teenagers still express today. It was fun, and in the end, we had a good time.
The next morning, I'd risen, Alex already was awake and out of bed by the time I woke up, and I went to inspect myself in the mirror.
The mop of fiery orange fluff atop my head was messy. My sallow, pale skin was littered with small, red bruises in places bruises do not usually form. In the least of words, I was a mess.
I put the mess to order, put on the first dress I deemed suitable for the sea and the scathing temperatures of July weather (which, then was only fifteen degrees Celsius, unfortunately, it has since increased to numbers I truly believe would kill me if I was still a small Victorian child, of forty degrees and surplus) and went off to find my husband.
We spent the days walking to and fro, around the dock, to the sea, to The Green Ginger and back again.
And it was like this we spent most of our honeymoon. It was that, or mewing around inside the townhouse as if we were little, agoraphobic goblins.
We were in Torquay for about a month.

The early days of our marriage seemed to pass us by easily, but as the years have trekked on, it's only gotten longer, which is the opposite of what one might expect.
Just like that, it was Autumn Harvest again, and Christmas, the New Year, Easter, my ninetieth birthday, and then his.
I wish I had more detail, but really, there isn't much I recall.
Though, the collective of turning ninety together, but looking barely nineteen was fascinating.
I was shocked by how quickly the year passed me by. Before I knew it, it was July twenty-first again, and so was our wedding anniversary.
I just remember thinking, "Wow. One year with a ring on my finger. Two years, no longer by myself."
And that was about it. Like our fleeting youth, the Victorian era was also coming to a close. Old Queen Victoria had her years- certainly, but she lived to see her diamond jubilee.
Eighteen-ninety-seven.
And Alex had practically begged me to go to the theatre with him for Christmas day, and of course, I couldn't say no. We'd been married for about eight years then, and I'd learned to just give into every bizarre idea he happened to come up with.
We were living in Canada in 1897, for no other reason than I thought it might be fun to see the Americas for a change of pace in our placidly boring English life.
We saw a small town's local production, where a small, equally red-headed girl was in the role of a boy, never mind the fact half the people involved were in some form of drag. It was weirdly progressive for the times.

Then it came, the big nineteen-hundred. Everyone Alex and I knew was excited, but quite frankly, I was underwhelmed by the implications.
"Oh wow!" I said, sarcasm rampant in my voice, "Another century, another war, probably."
"How'd you get that idea?"
"Alexander, my dear, the English and the Americans and the French and all of Europe, I suppose, love war. I hate it. All the young men drafted, all propaganda fliers go up simultaneously..."
"Maybe not this time, Angel."
And for a while, he was right, until he wasn't.