It Was One Of Those Things That

Caroline Trent Hadn't Meant To Shoot Percival Prewitt, But She Had, And Now He Was Dead. Or At Least She Thought He Was Dead.

She Needed Him To Be Him. Even If He Could Not Be Hers.

Do I Look Like A Mess?” She Asked. He Nodded. “but You’re My Mess,” He Whispered.

Suddenly It Was Too Hard To Be In His Presence, Too Painful To Know That He Would Belong To Someone Else.

Interesting, He Later Reflected, Was Perhaps Not The Correct Word.by The Time He And Henry Arrived Back At The House For Their Midday Meal-a Scrumptious Bowl Of Hot, Sticky Porridge-he Had Mucked Out The Stable Stalls, Milked A Cow, Been Pecked By Three Separate Hens, Weeded A Vegetable Garden, And Fallen Into A Trough.