Winter 1844 – A Beautiful Prison

“I was dead,” she said. “She was dead. We were both dead. Prevost cared not. He captured the soul and locked it into this corpse and told us we were alive.” She shook her head. “We are not. We should be dead. We should have passed on.”

Father held out his hand. “I can correct that. I can set you free.”

The corners of her lips turned up, ever so briefly. “Not yet. We have other men to kill.”