The Man Who Did Not Exist
During my first weeks in the eleventh century, I made a new habit of joining my Rhenisch roommate in her late night prayers. Freia observed the hour of Matins, thanks to her years in the convent; she would rise from her sleep of her own accord and kneel at her bedside while reciting her Latin devotions. Though my faith did not require such rites, my nightmares often woke me around the time when Freia voiced her prayers. So I began to creep across the floor to her side and endeavored to listen to her words, struggling against the sieve of panic shackling my lungs. Novel terrors had cropped up in my dreams, fueled by Beth’s death and the frightening journey through the currents of time. My new friend’s steadiness soothed me, easing my spirit back toward slumber aft
