A Love That Was More Than Love
Annabelle watched in horror as the constables fell to the floor. A wineglass shattered. Her lip quivered as her self control dwindled. She was not, as she knew many of the famous authors in her company believed her to be, a frail little woman. She had remained strong, brave, even level-headed throughout the murders of not only her suitor but also several other people that evening. Never mind that Hemingway and Edgar had been quibbling over her all night. She had put her hope in Ms. Christie, then in Krishanti, and finally in the constables (as bumbling as they were). And all of those hopes were shattered before her. Desperate, she buried her face in Edgar’s sleeve as she sobbed. He hesitated, then touched her bare shoulder to comfort her. His hands were a little clammy, but his touch was gentle.
She barely heard Hemingway declare that yet another set of bodies had to be moved. As Edgar stopped stroking her arm and moved to help Ernest, she heard Ms. Brontë call her a cupcake. Annabelle choked back her sobs and glared; Brontë had lost nothing that evening, except a little of her dignity when the constables first arrived. Who did she think she was? All evening she had been nothing but stuck-up and accusatory. But Annabelle was too upset and not always good with words like these authors, so she refrained from expressing her indignation. Besides, she didn’t want to be left alone either. She feared for Edgar, and she did not entirely trust Brontë either. And even though she wanted to believe Lenore was benevolent (she was friends with Edgar, after all), being in the company of a spirit still made her feel a bit uneasy.
Reposted from http://ift.tt/2eaqMah.
Tags: poeparty, annabel lee.
