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Weekly Contest #127
“He’s alive and well. I can feel it.” Honoria was an icicle when she said it, cool and still and utterly self-composed, perched like a Sphinx on the cat-worn, claw-tattered blue sofa in the living room. Not the slightest hint of histrionics, not the merest pinch of petulance. She knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Maynard would return, although she couldn’t have explained how she came to possess this knowledge. Something deep inside her belly sensed it. As she was one week from eighteen and eager to prove herself grown up and exorcise...
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