• Long Listed for the 2018 Wattys
• A Wattpad Featured Story
• Top 30 in the first ever Historical Awards
[ A "GREAT EXPECTATIONS" RETELLING ]
GENRE: historical fiction
London, 1884
"Sometimes, even messiahs can't bring back the dead."
Instead of ea...
The sentence, We ought to talk later, always brewed a vicious maelstrom in me. Twisting and turning like a noose around my neck, however typical that may sound. And it did exactly that when Father said so.
“Lad,” Edmund says from behind me.
Sunlight hasn't had much time to tread on the cobblestone pathway leading to the gates.
I turn around, Edmund standing at the Main Entrance. Only a few gardeners are working, but even they're at the back.
I raise a brow at him and Edmund comes closer, lightly stroking his chin. The black of his uniform contrasts my morbid blue in the light. “If I may ask, what have you been doing?”
I gesture to the gates. “To work.”
“You know what I mean.” He rolls his eyes. “It isn't like you to leave your tracks so… uncovered.”
You mean the obvious James Ryland disguise.
My arms fold across my chest.
“Unless.” Edmund frowns. “You did that on purpose. A well hidden secret wouldn't cause--”
“--As much chaos as an open secret. That is an excellent deduction.” I shrug, no song of trees’ birds accompanying me. “And your asking me this shows that effect on Father.”
Edmund tilts his head to the side, his mouth downtrodden. No trace of his usual humour covers his face. “A question always crossed my mind, one I didn't think I'd need before now: Is that you talking or William Sterling?”
Holding back a grunt, I shake my head.
A man with a gash on his arm prowling; another seeking asylum like a convict.
“Every action has its consequences, Edmund. Father will understand what I'm talking about.” Without looking back at him, I turn towards the gates, out of these gardens, out of this Eden. Even though, there isn't much light, I shield my eyes with my hand.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
“Is that you or William Sterling?”
Edmund question revolves around my mind, despite of initial dismissal of it. It blends itself with the manipulated dream, the one with strange music boxes and lifeless chapels.
Scorching sunlight pattering with the rain; its scar reflecting on the one with no life left in her...
Mathilda’s sigh makes me shake my head. She resigns into her seat, throwing the letter onto the table. We're at her apartment, with me being at her east.
“Is everything all right?” My fingertips tap on the old wood.
“Just my brother-in-law. He says Della is better, but she's still at the hospital.” Mathilda pulls her loose hair to her right shoulder.
