It became her mantra and most fervent prayer. She stove off sleep for over two days, driving herself until sheer exhaustion forced her into dreamless unconsciousness. Her body surrendered to its demands. She avoided looking in the mirror, fearing the frightful appearance of her sunken eyes and gaunt expression, and slid underneath the bedcovers. Please don’t let the dreams come again. She closed her eyes. They returned with a sadistic vengeance—the alarmed calls from the sidewalks—the thunderous impact of forged hooves on cobblestone. The noxious stench of burning coal, the relentless pulse of spring-driven pistons, the mangling of flesh—the cracking of delicate bones. And the pain—always the pain. Abigail started upright in her bed with a cry, sweat molding her nightgown to her body despite the chill permeating the room. She ran her hands through her hair, the faint tick tick sound of her arm reminding her of the origin of her nightmares.
What do You think about A Clockwork Christmas Angel?
