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book to a certain page, then placed it in Ed’s blanketed lap to show him. There was a picture in the book there, a woodcut illustration showing a man in plate armor like that worn many centuries past. The visor of his helm was raised, and he wore a stern expression that was almost a scowl, his dark hair billowing out from the helmet around his face. He stood in the cobwebbed corridor of some ancient castle, where a hooded spectre was prepared to spring at him from behind a pillar. At the bottom of the picture was the caption: “He had a dark and stormy countenance.”
    “It’s called ‘The Exiled Knight and the Damsel,’” she explained, pointing at the book. “It’s a romance. I’ve always adored romances. The knight is trapped in the castle, but his hard heart is melted by the love of the young maiden, and he rescues her from her evil uncle, who is a necromancer.” She shuddered as she said this, as if the fiction held some special truth for her.
    “The church condemns these books,” she continued, and sighed. “Father doesn’t like them, but he lets me keep them because they were my mother’s.”
    “Do you think I look like the knight?” Ed asked, trying to understand what she was getting at. He could see only the slightest resemblance himself … perhaps the dark hair was similar?
    “Well,” she said, “you might not directly resemble him, but in spirit …”
    It was silly, perhaps, but her romantic notions of him—unfounded as they might be—stirred something deep inside Ed’s chest. He’d never, ever heard any lady speak of him in such terms before. Not for him such flowery words, not for Edwin Bolt the cripple, the disfigured…The few ladies he’d bedded had praised his “stallion-like” endowment, and Jenny had once told him he had an angry sort of handsomeness… But to compare him to a knight, a hero?
    And now that he got a better look at the girl herself, he could see that she was no child. Her round, pale, freckle-dusted face might have a childish cast, true… But her body was that of a fully-ripened woman.
    Under her pink cotton dress, trimmed with lace, she had ample curves. Her bosom strained against the top of her dress. Although the cut of the dress was not particularly immodest, her breasts seemed to test the very strength of the bodice. He saw the heavily freckled nape of her neck, and wondered how far down her chest the freckles went…
    Further down, the dress flared out dramatically at the waist. He had the notion that it wasn’t all just the dress. Her hips were wide, accentuating her femininity. There was soft, womanly flesh on those hips, a surfeit of it.
    Ed has always been entranced by pretty ladies who had plush bodies with a bit of extra padding about them.
    Like that curvy Constance Clement in my youth… Look what I got for that infatuation…
    Under the bed sheets and inside his trousers, Ed’s manhood began to stir… Ed bit his lip and tried to fight that sense of arousal. His organ sometimes seemed to have a mind of its own, and had often embarrassed him by asserting itself at inopportune times.
    “I watched you from my window,” Julia said. “You were running in the rain, did you see someth-”
    She went silent when she heard a man clearing in his voice in the hallway outside. The door to the room swung inward, and a middle-aged man in the black robes of a churchman appeared, an awkward smile on his chiseled face.
    Rector Powell.
    His eyes were a deep red color, far beyond bloodshot.
    Almost … demonic.
    Ed shuddered. But there had to be some explanation? He’d heard that the Rector had not been feeling well as of late.
    Ed nodded to the Rector, suddenly remembering that he had wanted to speak to the man about all he had witnessed outside: the screaming preacher-thing with the dead face, and then, that unseen horror in the cave… He sucked in a deep breath and fought against his nerves. He had to report what he had seen.
    Unless the Rector already