10
Here life has death for neighbor,
And far from eye or ear
Wan waves and wet winds labor,
Weak ships and spirits steer;
They drive adrift, and whither
They wot not who make thither;
But no such winds blow hither,
And no such things grow here.
—“The Garden of Proserpine”
by Algernon Charles Swinburne
The chill woke Caroline with cold, creeping tendrils, stealing beneath the thin hotel blankets. Bleary-eyed, she reached for the comforting warmth of Lincoln’s body. But he wasn’t there. She jolted awake, crying out in fear.
“Lincoln! Lincoln!” Terror shot through her like a shotgun blast. Her lungs seized, her vision blacked out, and she bent double over the side of the bed, dry-heaving.
“Caroline.” Lincoln’s deep, rumbling purr of a whisper was there beside her, his arms strong
