23
Dryas
St-Malo, France — A Few Months Later
Staring out the the window onto the warm, lamplit street, I sip the rough whiskey that’s in my tumbler. I can see the cobblestones, can make out the letters on the sign on the building opposite me, so it is not too late. It is maybe eight-thirty, no later.
I take another swig. It is rotgut stuff, making me wince as it burns its way down my throat. But it keeps the dreams of Arsen at bay late at night, and makes the days pass more quickly.
Unbidden, the image of my brother swims up to me. Arsen, just as he realizes that I have stabbed him. When he looks into my eyes for the last time.
When he knows that he will never see his slave girl again, or his child be born.
Shaking my head to clear the vision, I slam the rest of the whiskey down.
