The year is 1879. When thirteen-year-old Ruth Merritt Holbrook emerges from her family's burning estate, bloody and charred, but entirely numb--She makes headlines. Reporters believe she is deranged. They accuse her of having set the fire. All the h...
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The hour is late and if someone were to catch the flickering of a light beneath my door I would most surely receive a scolding. But I have to write this down and I have only just said goodnight to Hanny. Today was remarkable. The oddest thing has occurred. But I suppose I should begin where I left off as not to convolute this. I shall try to describe this as well as I can. I have been told I am good with details, we shall see.
Let me first explain that Dr. Lucius Edward Abaddon is American—southern, I believe—with an odd way of speaking that is both slow and soothing. I should also note that I do, in many ways, find Dr. Abaddon striking. He appeared stylishly dressed, well groomed and altogether not what I had imagined him to be. It wasn't that I had much of an idea what he might look like, I had overheard people talking about him, mostly the nurses since the nuns are far to elevated in their mindsets to stoop to such regular female activities. I had heard that he was supposedly handsome, I even knew that he was young—but he is more. This man is no more than five years my senior. If I did not know better, I would even wager him younger then that. But for him to have achieved the success and repute that he has in such a short time would be nearly impossible. That is the first thing that is off about him.
The third is his features. He is perfectly symmetrical, perfectly lovely—almost to the point of distrust. He is tall, easily towering over all the females present at this meeting, and well postured. His skin is lightly tanned, but not more than would befit any gentleman, and his hair, which falls just below is earlobes, is honey colored and nicely styled. He has a beard, which he keeps tightly trimmed. Everything about him, from the shape of his facial hair, to the freckles on his nose, to the length of his eyelashes, is perfectly equal. Everything is evenly space and beautifully symmetrical.
I haven't even spoken on his eyes. Oh, they are physically breathtaking. I have never seen anyone with eyes quite like his. They are green, but not dark or muddied with brown or gold, instead, they are pale, crystalline, with a greyish tinge that is almost metallic. And he knows how to use them. He is all eye contact and appeasing smiles. It was not that he said or did anything to make me uncomfortable; it was only that he was too much, too much of everything.
Too pretty.
Too serious.
Too honest.
Far too interested in me.
He walked into the parlor and introduced himself as Dr. Abaddon to nurse Franklin, Sisters Alberta and Florence. Then, without so much as missing a beat, he turned and introduced himself as Lucius to me. If I could accurately describe the look on Sister Florence's face I most certainly would, but I believe such an art would take someone much more skilled. She was appalled, as was I. Our people have quickly adapted to new inventions and technologies over the past few years, but our social structure and the nuances therein, have not and likely will not change. For this man, a complete stranger, to offer me his first name upon meeting is both entirely inappropriate and entirely unexpected.
