15
Boston, 3 April 1864
Claire was walking down Beacon Hill when she saw him. It was only from the back, dark hair and a light suit with a dapper light blue hat. It must be Sunday, and they were going to walk through the park. She knew how it would end and that she was dreaming, but she was going to enjoy it. It had been so long since she’d been kissed. Truly, she knew she had been, but not by whom, and she always woke before it happened.
This time it would—she would stay asleep long enough to see his face and enjoy his lips.
Before she could reach him, the dream changed, and she was in Paris.
Now her heart hammered in her throat. Dreams of Paris never ended well. She struggled to open her eyes, but each lift of her heavy eyelids only brought her to the same scene. She walked down a b
