Of Fate And Prejudice

Chapter One

London, England
1840

Fire. The angry beast curled and stretched, creeping up steadily until it engulfed the entire building in its flames. The smoke ascended to the heavens, cloaking the clouds, poisoning the air. Unable to breathe, Frances crumbled to the dust. She pressed a hand to her racing heart and tore her lips apart in a desperate attempt to force oxygen through her parched throat. But her efforts proved useless. Darkness swooped down on her, invading every inch of her being as it fought to claim her soul.

Frances jerked upright, the vision before her dispelled by the object that touched her hand. She opened her eyes to find Sara's hand resting on her wrist.

"You're shaking," Sara said.

"I am," Frances murmured into the stiff air of the hackney, her heart matching the sound of the horses' hooves as they pounded the gravel.

"Same dream?" Sara slipped her hand further down, her callouses poking Frances' delicate flesh as she laced her fingers with hers.

Frances turned to Sara then. While a small smile tugged on the edges of Sara's full lips, her brown eyes reflected the same fear that tormented Frances' soul. And indeed Frances was afraid. It didn't matter how much she fought to be rid of it, or how far she ran, fear haunted her; it had chased her across the Atlantic Ocean, it plagued her nightly visions, and seated in this carriage with her, it possessed her body.

She nodded. "Perhaps we made a mistake. Perhaps we shouldn't have come here."

"We didn't have a choice." Sara squeezed her hand, sensing her distress. "And Layla will be delighted to see you."

"Too many years have gone by. Layla might be unforgiving in her recollection of the past." Frances shook her head.

Six years had passed since she saw her sister Layla. Frances had been fourteen at the time, but not too young to understand the implications of her sister's crime against their family. Papa had called it demonic possession, for nothing could better describe Layla's decision to steal from her family and runoff in the middle of the night, never to be seen or heard from again. It wasn't until two years ago that a letter from Layla arrived at their farm in Louisiana. Frances knew nothing of its content, and certainly wouldn't have heard of it if Sara hadn't told her. It was Sara who took delivery of the letter for Papa. She had crammed the return address because she believed Frances might secretly want to rekindle her relationship with Layla. But Frances had been too much of a coward to go against Papa's wishes to ostracize Layla. For all she knew, Layla might wish to do the same to her now.

"We must hope for the best."

"I'm weary of hope. I fear we've come all this way for nothing. Oh, Sara, what have we done?!" Tears filled her eyes, and she hurried to wipe them with her sleeve. She was unwilling to give into her tears, even if all she wanted to do was bury her face in her hands and weep. For several weeks, she'd fought to keep from crumbling into a pile of grief. Her eyes burned with unshed tears.

Sara shifted close, her warmth enveloping Frances as she pulled her into her embrace. "We did what we had to," she whispered against her hair and patted her back in the familiar manner she always did when Frances was upset about something.

Frances closed her eyes as she rested her head on Sara's shoulder, drawing strength from the arms of her best friend. More than a friend, Sara was a sister, and had been so since the day of Frances' birth. While Sara was only a year older than Frances' twenty years, the two women grew up together. They'd formed a bond peculiar to the one that typically existed between a mistress and her slave.

They sat in the stillness of the carriage for nearly an hour until it began slowing down. They'd arrived. Frances swallowed. Gently, she raised her head and turned to the window. She pushed the curtain aside in time to see an imposing black gate. A giant three-story building laid within the confines of the barred gate, its shingled roof nearly kissing the gray, pregnant clouds that hung low over it. She released her grip on the curtain and turned sharply to Sara.