That was before I met the man who introduced me to, well… me. There was a day, though now that day seemed lifetimes ago, when a sight such as Noctorno Hawthorne of another world (or indeed this one) would have caused me to have a much different reaction, not only to him, but to my plans for the imminent future. With his dark hair and skin browned in the sun, those eyes were deliciously striking.

They were not eyes you were likely to forget. His thick, black hair was untidy (this also attractive).Īnd I could see his light-blue eyes but only in my imagination as he had his back to me. And it was a shirt that fit his broad shoulders magnificently. It was attractive and made of an equally attractive plaid. He also had a shirt that was not the fashion in this world. They were made of a rough, sturdy, faded-blue material. He was wearing a pair of trousers the like that couldn’t be found in my world. He reported that he was instead a member of the city guard, an occupation he referred to as being “a cop.” A rather surprising statement considering all that was him.Īnd he called himself Noc for some unknown reason, as Noctorno was a fine name, a strong name, a regal name (this last was true as his counterpart in this world was a prince). This I thought was rather mad (everything about it, obviously), but with few princes, that meant there were few kings, so who ruled? A world that existed on a parallel plane where all beings had twins to my own world. Apparently they had very few princes in that other world. The Prince Noctorno of the other world was in the doorway to a bedchamber.Īlthough, he was not actually a prince. I turned the corner, my eyes to my slippers, but my senses made me lift my gaze to the passageway.Īt what I saw, I halted and grew still, then slowly and quietly retraced my steps and ducked behind the corner, peering back around. Wine might not make me forget, but I’d found of late that it served well to dull the pain. These thoughts on my mind, I moved down the hallway of the Winter Palace seeking my room where I planned to pull the cord, ring a servant and request several bottles of Fleuridian wine. Indeed, the months since those witches took my Antoine had been time I wished I had the power to erase from my memory. That day had been one I wished to quickly forget. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

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Lacybourne Manor by Kristen Ashley