Page 65 of Whispers of Helena
Merriweather exhales sharply, sensing my tension, but I can’t loosen my hold. My entire mission teeters on the edge of a blade, and Silas’s heart, his very soul, hangs in the balance.
The thought sends a fresh wave of fear surging through me. Because despite everything I have seen, everything I know, I am terrified. Not just for him. Not just for me.
But for what happens if I fail.
Names
Silas
She rides hard,pushing Merriweather forward with an urgency that tightens the grip on my heart with every pounding hoofbeat. The night is thick around us, the air biting against my skin. The full moon casts a radiant yet eerie glow over the land, lighting the path ahead, but doing nothing to settle the storm inside me.
I’m a fool.
A damn fool for letting her in, for lowering the walls I swore to keep fortified. A fool for believing, even for a second, that she was something more than a fleeting dream. A fool for letting Kiran hope.
The thought of my son, of the pain he’ll feel when she leaves in the morning, clamps down on my stomach, twisting into a painful knot. I let him down. And that is the deepest wound of all.
The trees thin as we push forward, and I raise my voice over the wind whipping between us. “Helena, we left the property. How much further?”
“I know we did, Silas. Not much further.” Her voice is tense, clipped, as if she has the right to be angry.
The land rises beneath us as we breach a ridge, and then, through the dim light, a shadow begins to take shape. A building,weathered, standing against the quiet expanse of pasture. The closer we get, the more defined it becomes, until I can make out the details.
Old, whitewashed wood. A short steeple, simple but strong, with a cross at the top.
A church.
Ourchurch.
A strange, distant sensation creeps over me, like something shifting deep within my memory. I’ve seen her in this place a thousand times in my mind, but the building itself had faded from those recollections. Now, it stands before me, certain and real.
I see her again, clear as day. In her Sunday dresses, soft fabric swaying as she moved. Her hair, thick and golden brown, spilling over her shoulders in waves. Kiran on her hip, his chubby hands clapping as she sang hymns with the congregation. The way she took my hand in hers, fingers threading together as we bowed our heads in prayer.
These moments and these pieces of her, I’ve held onto tightly. But I had forgotten where they took place.
She pulls Merriweather to a stop and dismounts, looping the reins around the railing of the steps. I follow, my movements stiff with frustration, my heart warring between disbelief and something far more dangerous. Recognition.
My patience is wearing thin. “Well, show me.”
She doesn’t react to my bitterness, only turns, her boots crunching against the gravel as she leads me around the side of the church. A silent pressure fills the air, humming with something potent. Then, as we round the corner, my breath catches.
A graveyard.
The iron fence surrounding it is darkened with time, its metal worn by years of wind and rain. The headstones stand in neat rows, some leaning, others still strong against the elements. The moment my eyes land on the markers nearest to the gate, something inside me stirs.
“My parents are buried here.” The words escape me before Ifully process them. The memories are no longer lurking at the edges. They’re pressing forward, clear and incontestable.
“They are,” she says softly. “Mine too.”
She lifts the latch on the gate, and the metal squeals in protest. Just before stepping through, she turns, placing a hand on my chest. The warmth of her palm seeps through my shirt, but does nothing to melt the ice encompassing me.
“Before we go any further, remember this, Silas: I’m right beside you. I’m here. You are not alone, and I will help you get through this.”
A shiver runs down my spine. Her voice, it isn’t Helena’s anymore. It’s hers.Caroline’s.Every vowel, every inflection. The way she used to say my name. It rips through me like a merciless blade.
I shove the feeling down. I won’t let it take root.
“I don’t need to be coddled,” I snap. “Let’s get on with it.”
