Call of the Trumpet
Chapter One
Paris, 1859
There was no lonelier sound in the world than that of dirt thudding dully on the lid of a
coffin. Cecile sensed the priest at her side, felt his light touch on her elbow, but she was unable
to move. The thudding continued and a misty rain began to fall. It did not move her. She stared
into the slowly filling grave.
"Mademoiselle ... Mademoiselle Villier, please. It is time to go, come along. You will catch a
chill standing in the rain like this."
Cecile ignored the priest, though not intentionally. Her only awareness was of the terrible
numbness that lay like lead upon her breast and weighted her arms, her legs, her very soul. If
only she could cry. Something within her might move then, and end the awful paralysis. But
she could only stare, watching until the coffin's lid was completely covered with the dark,
sodden earth.
"Come along now, mademoiselle. Really, you must," the priest urged.
"Excuse me. Excuse me, please. I will take the mademoiselle."
The priest moved gratefully aside, making way for the small brown man dress ... read full excerpt from Call of the Trumpet ebook
