Love and Literature

Love and Literature Love and LiteratureBook 1 Aviva Orr © Copyright 2023 by Aviva Orr Text by Aviva Orr Cover by Kim Killion Dragonblade Publishing, Inc. is an imprint of Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc. P.O. Box 23 Moreno Valley, CA 92556 [email protected] Produced in the United States of America First Edition April 2023 Kindle Edition Reproduction of any kind except where it pertains to short quotes in relation to advertising or promotion is strictly prohibited. All Rights Reserved. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author. License Notes: This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook, once purchased, may not be re-sold. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. 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Without your support, there is no ‘us’, so we sincerely hope you adore these stories and find some new favorite authors along the way. Happy Reading! CEO, Dragonblade Publishing Table of Contents Title Page Copyright Page Publisher’s Note Epigraph Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Epilogue Author’s Note About the Author One day, the tedious moments to beguile, We read of Lancelot and her he lov’d. We were alone, conceiving nothing vile. Whilst we perus’d, a mutual wish we prov’d To read each other’s eyes; we blush’d and sigh’d. One single incident subdued us quite; ’T was where the longing Lancelot applied His lips to hers—O moment of delight! Then he who ever faithful liv’d and died, Kiss’d me with rapture—need I more recite? The tale was Galeott call’d, the author’s name. That day we read no more. —Dante, “Inferno” This book is an homage to Charlotte Bronte’s The Professor Prologue Leave my loneliness unbroken!— Quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!” —Edgar Allen Poe, “The Raven” Dartmoor, Devonshire 1850 Someone ought to tell them Mama is dying. But Papa doesn’t have the courage, and I don’t have the heart. Violet shielded her eyes from the emerging sun and squinted at the two children racing across the purple-hued hills. They zigzagged their way down the craggy slope, which came to rest a few feet from the backyard of their thatched cottage. Sebastian led the chase, churning the mud thick from that morning’s rain. Frances followed on her brother’s heels, but her gangly legs failed her, and she fell face forward. Violet groaned, thinking of the clean frock Frances had put on that morning. The little girl leapt to her feet and shouted after her brother. Sebastian turned and waved something in Frances’s direction, prompting her to sprint after him with renewed energy. He reached the bottom of the hill and raced home, barreling through the wooden gate that did little to distinguish their backyard from the tor-covered moorland beyond. “Oh no, you don’t.” Violet eyed Sebastian’s caked boots as he clambered towards the cottage, and she moved to block his entrance to the kitchen. Sebastian charged forward like a cornered ram, forcing Violet to jump out of his way. Frances raced up behind him and flew past Violet. “Do stop,” Violet pleaded, following the chase through the kitchen and into the front hallway. “Don’t,” she warned in a low voice as they made for the stairs, but neither child paid heed to her. Frances pursued her brother as if possessed by a demon. “Give it back, Sebastian! You’ll crush it.” She caught him by his shirttail and pulled so hard that she almost ripped the fabric. He stumbled and fell onto the middle landing of the staircase. Frances pounced onto his back, pinned him face down on the stone floor, and pried at his closed fist. “Give it to me! It is a special gift for Mama.” “Finders keepers,” Sebastian taunted. “I’m going to give it to Mama.” Violet gritted her teeth, stormed up the stairs, swooped down, and pulled both children to their feet. They stared at her wide-eyed, their dark curls hanging loose and wild about their faces. Although only two years younger than Violet, her ten-year-old siblings were so different from her that she sometimes wondered if they were changelings. Never would she leave her honey-colored hair a tangled mess or cause her clothes to become caked with mud from questing on the moors. She preferred to enjoy the bleak tranquility of the heath and the adventures found in books. But with Mama confined to her sickbed these past months, she’d had little time for such luxuries. No longer could she read for hours amongst the rustling golden peat. She’d become the woman of the house and had taken