Where Dead Flowers Grow

Prologue

© 2014 by _littlemonsters. All rights reserved. 

All material in this book (Where Dead Flowers Grow) and everything on this account, unless otherwise stated, is property of the owner, creator and author of this work: Madison Pettitt (_littlemonsters). Reproduction of this work, in whole or in part, in any manner, without the prior consent of the copyright holder is violation of the Copyright, Patents and Design Act of 1988 and is punishable by law. 

                                                  • 1876 •

In the shadow of Edinburgh Castle rain whipped and splattered the Ross Fountain that stood sentinel against the ghastly arctic weather. Camille lingered nearby, her parasol unsteady against the winds. The rain did not bother her. In fact, she was quite glad of it. Her nervousness of the coming evening had caused her to feel feverish and nauseated and the cool night air was a relief. Angry streaks of grey danced across an ethereal blanket of stars, above her and a bolt of lightning sliced through the darkness, illuminating the sprawling city below. It was a grand city; a city of steam and clockwork, of magic and science. For a moment Camille watched, in wonder, as the city lights flickered like resilient beacons in the night. 

Edinburgh had withstood the test of time, and it too would withstand this. 

Darkness cloaked the tops of trees, making it incredibly difficult for Camille to see the half crescent moon that lurked behind. She’d grown to adore the moon on her midnight meetings with Edward Buchanan; it was a bright, glowing orb in her ever-growing world of black and grey. He would tell stories as their fingers entwined and hearts beat as one, of the constellations and how, as they glanced towards the heavens, the stars gleaming back would no longer be living. They were looking at dead things, and how beautiful they were. 

It unnerved her not to see the moon whole and present, even more so to see clouds swallowing the stars; a sign that tonight would be their last together, for the stars had been present in all nights but this. Oh, how she wished she had more time. She still had so much to learn from Edward and he had promised her so many things! Picnics in the gardens, evenings out to the theatre, ice skating, dinner parties and even a visit to his Clan's castle! But business was business. Tomorrow she would make her way to back to London to inform her Coven of the success in uniting the waring factions. At long last they could call a truce. This was why her adventures with Edward were to end. 

She would see him again, she hoped. And they would write. Camille liked the thought of letters, it would remind her that her time here had not been a fanciful dream. 

In the distance she heard the rhythmic clip-clop of hooves and through the rolling mist the yellow glow of a headlamp drifted into view. As soon as the Coachman had stopped Camille was running to close the space between them, her parasol no match for the icy winds. She had spent many days exploring the city in Edward’s town coach, it was navy — his most favoured colour — with gloss black furnishings and drawn by a single dark stallion. 

Once inside she let out a shaky laugh. She was chilled to the bone and her locks hung by her shoulders in matted waves. Worse still, her cobalt skirts were an absolute monstrosity! Caked in mud and rainwater, there was no way she’d be able to wear the dress again. Camille thought she must have looked an awful state, but Edward thought she was the most beautiful thing to ever walk the Earth. He reached out a steady hand and gently tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. He was wearing a dark green woolen jacket with matching waistcoat and a long layered, tartan kilt. 

“I’m sorry I kept you waitin’.” His lips quirked up into a smile.

Camille blushed, “It’s quite all right. I find the fresh air calms my nerves.”