The Second (The Immortal Prophecies: Book I)

XI. Guenevere

Answers, answers. I wasn't recieving any, and for every day I hoped they would come, more questions took their place, circling around my head like clothes in a drying machine, or they haunted me like ravenous vultures would a carcass, which was perhaps why I kept questioning my mental health.

The necklace wasn't helping either.

I examined them both in my hand, the metal feeling like hot iron burning my flesh, stinging my eyes with tears. What if it's just some necklace Sìmon found in his home from his visitors? Yes, that woman had some jewelry on herself, it made sense. The rotting could be because of its exposure to water, or mud--someone could've stepped on it. Ah, at least the logic was returning--slowly but surely. But just as I was close to relieving myself, that nasty little voice in the back of my head came back.

Then what explains the description of the castle he mentioned that perfectly matches what happened to you?

The tragic case of a demented mind like mine...?

And the way it the bloody object in your hand is suspiciously identical to yours?

Jewelry has been manufactured for years. The fact that one like mine is found in France during the last century--oh, my. I felt my eye twitch, and my jerry felt like it had been buffeted by some vexatious brute.

The necklaces left my hand as I threw them on the mattress, placing plenty of distance from them like they were the plague. So much for the logic returning, now I sounded more like an idiot than what I started with. I ran my hands through my hair, shutting my eyes in hopes that when I'd open them, the virtual reality would disappear and common sense would take its place.

I found Bonnie, and that was as true as I was going to get.

Sighing, I wound my arms around her neck and collapsed apon her, squeezing her tight enough that my phantom words would get to her somehow. Her silver, coarse blazer mover and she squeezed me just as tightly back. Thank Christ.

"What does the lovely nurse Anderson have to deal with? Symptoms, madame?" She asked, trying to lighten my mood. Typical.

"A case of realistica phantasmica," I muttered. She snorted.

"That's not even Latin," which was the whole point, "and really? A 'ghost reality'--that's new in my profession." I pulled back, accusingly pointing a finger in the direction of my bed, sending a small message that she'd look.

Shuffling she stretched her neck over to avoid coming close, like I had, stiffening once I knew she had seen my burdening situation. "Oh my." A pause. "Where'd you get it?"

"Lincoln's late grandfather," I said leaning my head on the wall. "'1907 Toulouse, France'," I quoted him. An uncomfortable silence stretched out before she spoke again.

"Well, it seems like the perfect thing to talk over a spot of tea downstairs." That earned her a small glare. "I'm famished, don't look at me like I called you a ninny. Now come, I'm sure the tea would do you some good."

***

It did indeed eased some of the tension building near my temples, but it was insufficient to end the thoughts popping like kernels of corn. If only my stomach was in condition to feel hungry at my analogy--I'd only eaten some bites of biscuits throughout the day.

"Eat--you're making me feel as filled as Mister Jacobson, and you know how that man irks me," Bonnie retorted, her nose wrinkling, pushing a plate with small sandwiches towards me.

"If I even take as much as a lick, I'd run to the toilet before you realize it." I sipped, grimacing, and pushing the plate back. She narrowed her eyes and smiled surly.