Free Where Bluebirds Fly by Brynn Chapman Page B

“I-I’m honored.” His eyes drop. “I cannot get you out of my head. It’s been every day, every minute.” They flick back up and his expression narrows. “And I know that sounds completely mental—but here...” his eyes scan the stalks and he shivers, “This may be where crazy and reality meet. I feel I already know you—like I always have.” I feel his chest still, holding his breath, awaiting my response.
    “As do I.” I search my feelings, to see if it rings true. It does. Being in his arms is like a homecoming. My mind screams at me to be sensible .  
    But this unfamiliar longing, this need , will not be silent.
    It’s more than wanting to kiss him. His eyes see me. Each moment of his attention restores me; like the ghost of my soul is returning, becoming flesh and blood once again.
      He was the draw in the corn. The empty sighing inside me is silenced, and the hornets are nowhere to be found. I smile maliciously. Good.
    “Good sir, I know this to be highly improper, but I must speak.”  
    “First, tell me your name?”
    “Verity Montague. And yours?”
    “Truman Johnstone.”
    “Verity, please excuse my forwardness .” He shifts me slightly in his arms, but to my relief, makes no sign of releasing me. “Wot year is it?”
    “1692. Good sir Johnstone, why would you ask me such?”
    “Please, just call me True. Because, Verity,” his eyes stare up at the sky, flicking right and left, “I see two moons, and I don’t see how that’s possible. Here, where you stand, it is the twenty-first century.”
    My mouth drops open, my limbs turn to stone. The inside of my mind does a revolution, and I struggle not to swoon.
    “What sort of enchantment be this?” I push away from his chest. Fear is returning.  
    Is he a warlock, sent to entice me, seduce me? The book, the book, I wrote in the book.
    So the townsfolk can finally convict me?
    I stare at him.
    “They are about to accuse me of witchcraft, perhaps they are right? Am I responsible for my arrival in this unnatural place, in my fervent desire to see you again? Oh, God, please forgive me.” My legs go to water and buckle, my knees scraping the hard ground.
    Fear smites my gut and resurges with a new intensity, punishing me for a few stolen moments of happiness, the swarm buzzes in my mind.
    He drops beside me; his eyes are tight and careful.   His hands slide around the small of my back again. He cradles me like a child and I inhale his scent; tears well at this tenderness.
    No one has held me, save John, since my childhood disappeared.
    His muscles tense under my hands.
    His voice hums through his throat as he speaks into my ear. “I refuse to believe this strange power you have over me is witchcraft. I think it’s a gift. I can’t imagine someone’s name that feels and tastes so pure, could be wicked?”
    I pull back to stare. My tethered self-control is unraveling again, and with trembling fingers, I touch his lips.
    I should not. I should not .
    A smoldering instinct blazes to life, incinerating my concern. My head dips forward. My lips are so close, they brush his.
    He whispers fervently, “You aren’t responsible for this, and if you say you’re not a witch-you are not. I think this place, the corn, is...an anomaly. Something I’m a bit of an expert on, seeing as I am one.”
    “What is an…anomaly?” I try to focus, but he’s so close, I cannot concentrate.
    “I think this place somehow yoked our time periods. I haven’t the slightest idea how. I always hated physics.”
    His expression wanes, and he’s breathing harder, as if he’s only realized how close I am to him.
    His blue eyes widen, and his words spill out. I listen intently, trying to catch them all.
    “I needed to see you again. And here you are. I’ve dreamt of you every night, since the first night. I am going to speak plainly, because I don’t know if this place will last, or fade off into the night like a bloody Brigadoon.”
    I open my mouth to ask