As I hung there in a miasma of regret, perspiration, and the limitations of mid-1800’s hygiene, I was distracted by the many things that were going unattended.

1.  I was supposed to give key testimony at Quentin’s trial.

2.  Judah Zachary is still at large.

3.  I trust almost no one.

4.  I neglected to instruct the domestics to feed Quicksilver.

5.  I have a slight nickel allergy, and these cuffs contain significant traces of it.

6.  These galluses were not meant to be worn while hanging in this position for extended periods.

7.  When Angelique met me, she was over a century old, and she still found me alluring.  I am flattered.

If only she would have stayed.  If only she could have.  As immortals, we are like the audience members for a play.  We see it and move on to another theatrical.  But as a man, I am neither an audience member nor an actor.  I am a character in a play that never ends.  One role.  One plot.  One act of indeterminate length.

As a “character,” my full perception of life is unknowable to an audience member.  And to be an audience member?  Unfeeling?  Godlike?  Skipping about from saga to saga?  It is now unthinkable to me.

Quite suddenly and quite definitely.



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