Chapter Two

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November 1869

She was gone; vanished before his eyes, into the unknown. It was unpleasant for her; he could see the pain in her eyes, hear the fear in her voice. He cried out her name, but it was too late. She was gone.

Nicholas' body was frozen; eyes locked on the painting that took her, hoping that somehow he could conjure her back. But no. He couldn't be selfish. She was safe in her own time, safe from Constable Doyle. And that was all that mattered.

He wasn't sure how long he'd been standing there, and when the small fire in the fireplace had petered out, he felt his way through the darkness to the sofa, sinking into the cushions.

He could feel his own darkness pulling him in, reverting him back to his old frame of mind. It was comfortable, familiar, who he was for fifteen years. It would be so easy. But then her coming back to help him would be all for nothing. That was what Constable Doyle wanted, and he was not going to let him win.

Instead, he focused on the wonderful memories he had with her. The day he found her in his living room eight weeks ago came to mind, and he remembered not being happy about it at the time. But now he can smile about it, convinced she was an angel sent from heaven.

"Oh, Matilda," he whispered, the sound barely leaving his lips.

Closing his eyes, he pictured her smile, her lips, her eyes. He had memorised all her facial features before she left, knowing one day he will never see them again. That time had come too soon, but for now, they will meet in each other's dreams.

~

He was dreaming about her before he was awoken by several loud bangs at the front door. Annoyed by the disturbance, he sat up blinking and glanced around the living room, slowly coming back to reality.

He had fallen asleep on the sofa, and going by the light creeping under the curtains, had slept right through until the next morning.

After standing upright and stretching out his muscles, he headed for the door, wondering who on earth would be coming by at that time of the morning.

"Clay! Open up!" the Irish Constable hollered from outside, followed by more impatient banging.

Nicholas stopped in his tracks. "Doyle," he mumbled to himself.

Memories flooded back to the previous night. Nicholas had gone to ask Mr. Valentine to be his alibi. If anyone were to question Nicholas' whereabouts that night, he was to say he stayed at his house all night. Mr. Valentine agreed, not needing to ask any further questions. Nicholas was like a son to him, and if he was in trouble, Mr. Valentine would do anything to help him.

After waiting for nightfall, Nicholas had ridden from Mr. Valentine's house to the police station, snuck inside and struck Constable Doyle from behind, hard enough to knock him unconscious. After grabbing the holding cell's key, he rescued Matilda and took her to safety to the cottage.

Nicholas was supposed to be at Mr. Valentine's, so Constable Doyle couldn't know he was inside the cottage. He had to stay quiet.

Checking once more that all the curtains were drawn and doors were locked, the banging continued from Constable Doyle, echoing through the silent house.

"Clay! I know you and Fletcher are in there! Open up or else!" He ceased the banging long enough to then rattle the doorknob.

The doors were solid, and the only way Doyle could get in was if he broke the windows. But even then it would be a struggle for a man of his size to squeeze through the frame.

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