Part 31

That evening, Andy immerses herself in the ledger. She merely places her hand on the embossed leather cover and looks over at Miranda, who doesn't even hesitate, but nods. Miranda is by the small table, poring over a map that she got from the hotel concierge, and going online on her burner phone. Watching Miranda squint at the phone, Andy stops on her way to the couch.

"Miranda, I'm an idiot."

Miranda snaps her head up, frowning. "Excuse me?"

"You're killing your eyes trying to read everything off the phone. Why don't you log onto the hotel Wi-Fi—"

"It's not safe, darling."

Andy nearly loses her trail of thought the term of endearment, but manages to remain focused. "I realize that. But you can use my VPN server. I use it back home and it's one of the best. Anyway, that means you can use your tablet without the hassle of using your phone as a hotspot."

Miranda smiles now. "I'll gladly accept." She pulls out her ten-inch tablet and boots it. Andy walks over and enters her password.

"There. You should automatically be logged in as soon as you have Wi-Fi access."

"Oh, this is better." Miranda goes into a browser and seems to forget about Andy standing right next to her. As Andy picks up the ledger again, Miranda's hand shoots out and takes Andy's by the wrist. "Thank you."

Andy bends and presses her lips to the top of Miranda's hair before heading over to the couch. Curling up in the corner closest to the window, she opens the ledger to the journal section. The handwriting changes slowly, and when Andy reaches the time around the hanging of Trudy and Caroline, it is far easier to read. She only skimmed over the passages about Caroline and Trudy's executions, as she had already gone over that, but as she turned the frail pages, she came upon another entry that caught her eye. Here, the ink was smudged in places as if Miranda had cried while writing.

Philadelphia, December 24, 1888

I picture them, my nieces and nephews, and their children and grandchildren, especially the small ones, as they're eagerly anticipating Christmas Day. Many of my memories of childhood are hazy, or so distant, that it is as if they belong to someone else, who kindly retold them to me. I do, however, remember my eagerness on this day, Christmas Eve, when I knew my parents were being deliberately secretive to heighten my and Corinne's anticipation. I could barely sleep, even if I tried very hard, to make the night go faster. I listen to every footstep, trying to figure out exactly who put the presents out in the night. This was before the tradition of Christmas stockings or the Christmas tree, of course. My parents put our presents by the fireplace and that's where Corinne and I sat and opened them, while having our oatmeal and hot tea. Mother would on this special morning put extra sugar in our oatmeal and if she could find it in the mercantile, some cinnamon sticks, for flavor.

My most precious present as a little girl and this was our first Christmas in the log cabin our father built with the help of neighbors, was a doll my mother made. Her body was sown of scrap fabric, and I found out later, one of Mother's blouses that she cut to pieces for the doll's dress and undergarments. Her hair was made of yarn, and this I believe came from one of my father's old socks that she pulled apart, attached to the doll's head, and combed until it looked like angel hair. Mother worked on the doll, whom I named Clarice, in the bad light from the candlelight, as soon as I was in bed. At the same time, she sowed a new dress for Corinne, also from an old dress of her own.

I loved Clarice. She proved to me that my strict and sarcastically inclined mother loved me. Not that I truly doubted it, but after the incident with the illness on the ship, I harbored a fear that my parents' feelings toward me would change. It did, to a degree, but not in a way that truly mattered. They never berated me for the slow progression of my aging. They defended me against anyone who ventured a hostile opinion. And it was because of that, as they grew older, that I had to leave. I had to protect them from the onslaught of accusations and questions about my person.

I didn't tell them or Corinne of my plans. I had saved up enough to take the stagecoach to New York where I planned to disappear into the anonymous crowd. I left them a letter. I'm afraid a rather lengthy and nostalgic letter that I fear must have upset more than reassured them.

Now that they're gone and the only one left who knows the truth about me is gone for more than a quarter of a century. Why is it that it strikes me tonight, this year when so much time has gone by? Is it because, for the first time since the passing to our new and bright shining future ended in a way nobody could ever have foreseen, two of us have died? The sisters, Trudy and Caroline, were hung, and witnesses confirmed their deaths. And here I sit on Christmas Eve, coming close to wishing it was me who was laid to rest next to my parents, my sister, and her oldest, Laurence. I do leave that up to my maker. This is a private vow that I've once and for all made.

Again, my thoughts drift to the small group of houses that protect Corinne's family. They're hardworking, good people, but I have to admit, I don't know them. If they come across any of my letters to Laurence, though I implored him to burn them, I hope they think they're the ramblings of some stranger. I doubt anyone in that small Maine town remembers me, or the rumors about me.

Here, there's a ink spot that makes Andy think Miranda stopped to consider her words.

But there is also a risk that if they do, they'll make the connection with the rumors about Trudy and Caroline Jenkins. It's enough of a risk, at least, to make me stay away. And what could I possibly say that makes sense to them, should I attempt a visit. Perhaps one day, once the speculations about the sisters have died down, I might visit my hometown incognito.

And now it just dawns on me. If I wait long enough, I can go back as Sarah Duncan, and nobody would be the wiser. I just have to learn to face facts.

I am once and for all erased from history in a way that's even more efficient than death.

Andy's chest caves in and she wants to rush over to Miranda and reassure her this is no longer true. That it never was. A voice inside keeps her from moving, telling her to calm down. They have more urgent matters to handle than this right now.

After another hour, Andy stretches, having to almost shake her head to shift out of the world Miranda's journal has taken her to. Reading about her struggles and triumphs has been inspirational, heartbreaking, and Andy thinks the red thread throughout this part of the ledger, is how resilient and passionate Miranda has managed to remain. The fact that she's done so amidst loneliness and bouts of depression, clenches Andy's heart.

"I'm done," Miranda says from the table, putting down her tablet. "Are you hungry?"

"Not really. I ate too much when we ordered room service." Andy stands up. "Good timing, I've read a lot and I need to…process."

"Oh? Miranda pushes the chair away from the table and leans back. "Something in particular?"

"Why don't I mull it over before we discuss?" Andy walks over to Miranda and steps between her and the table, leaning against it. "You ready for bed?" she murmurs.

Miranda colors faintly and stands. Stepping in between Andy's legs, she cups her cheeks and kisses her lips. "I have been ready for quite some time."

Andy feels her own cheeks warm now and Miranda clearly notices and chuckles quietly, deep in her throat. Then she slides her lip along Andy's neck, nipping lightly only to soothe the almost-sharp sensation with her tongue. "If you only knew how much I have thought of doing this. Despite everything, this…" Miranda captures Andy's earlobe and tugs at it gently with her teeth. "Like this. Tasting you."

Andy eventually regains control of her muscles and wraps her arms around Miranda. "Glad it's not just me." And relieved that, despite her words at the library, Miranda's not rejecting her. Yet. Forcing that last little word out of her mind, as thinking about it will surely be a slide down a shoot to perpetual heartbreak, Andy wraps her legs around Miranda and kisses her. Deep, probing, the kisses are of the best kind. Just wanting to taste, caress, and lose herself in the sensation of being the sole focus of this amazing, beautiful woman.

"Andrea…" Miranda's voice offers benediction, so soft, husky and filled with enough pent up emotions to bring far too much hope to Andy. Hope that Miranda will realize how amazing and unique this is.

"I'm here." Andy parts her legs and Miranda's hand is there, right at the junction, cupping her. "Ah!" Andy tips her head back, arching against Miranda who bends and closes her teeth around Andy's left nipple, through the thin layers of fabric.

Miranda moans and the reverberations travel through Andy's entire body. Suddenly, her clothes are stifling her. Her skin is as sensitive as if flames are licking her body and Andy is grateful when agile fingers are unbuttoning the blouse and pulling it off her. Miranda continues by unzipping Andy's suit trousers and wrapping an arm around Andy's waist, she tugs her up enough to shove the trousers down. Andy kicks them off her stocking clad feet, glad she's wearing thigh-highs.

"Sweet Jesus," Miranda gasps, and her hands are back between Andrea's thighs. "So hot."

"Right…there." Andy leans back on her hands, her legs spread wide. She's still wearing her panties, but that doesn't stop Miranda who eases them aside. She pushes one hand under Andy's bra and merely pushes it up above her breasts. At the same time, her fingers of her other hand finds their way in between Andy's folds, feverishly searching and finding her clit.

"Yes. There." Miranda's narrowed eyes make her look entirely focused as she locks her gaze on Andy while starting maddening caresses. She fondles Andy's breasts, one at a time, tormenting her erect nipples until they're a deep red and screaming for Miranda's mouth. Andy can barely focus on the onslaught of pleasure when Miranda's other hand rolls her clit, lets go to dip into the moisture, only to return and start all over again. Over and over, she does this, keeps Andy on the precipice, until she's sobbing.

"Please…" Andy can barely speak. Her arms can't hold her up much longer.

"You never have to beg with me. Just tell me what you want," Miranda says, breathing so fast now, she's trembling.

"I'm so close." Andy tries to put her need into words. "Go…inside."

Miranda shifts her stance and moves closer. "Hold onto me." She abandons Andy's over-sensitized breasts and wraps her arm around Andy's shoulders. Positioning her fingers at Andy's entrance she goes inside. Slowly, and with enough fingers to make it burn in the best of ways. Andy wraps her arms and legs around Miranda, grateful to change position, and the closeness is really all it takes. Chest to chest, Miranda fully clothed and Andy in complete disarray, they kiss as Miranda starts moving her hand, faster and faster. She's hitting all the right nerve-endings, and her thumb intermittently strokes Andy's clit. Andy's world shrinks down to hosting only her and Miranda and how they're feeling right now. The pleasure, the way they move against each other, taste each other...nothing can compare to this.

And then she comes. Andy clings to Miranda and hides her scream against the damp, fragrant skin on Miranda's neck. She convulses, jerks, and inside her, the contractions pull Miranda's fingers further in until Andy is spent.

"My God," Miranda gasps, holding Andy tight. It's impossible to judge who's doing most of the trembling. They're both shaking and Andy can tell, as she slowly calms down a little, that Miranda is so turned on, sweat's beading on her temples and upper lip.

"So good," Andy manages as her breathing is less labored. "And…my turn."

"What?" Miranda looks up, glassy-eyed, and clearly unable to let go.

Andy shifts and turn them around. She makes sure Miranda is perched against the table, since there is simply no time for them to move to the bedroom, yet. Unzipping Miranda's trousers, she does what Miranda did earlier and pushes them off her. She kneels before Miranda, who is still wearing her leather boots and helps her out of them, and the trousers. Single-mindedly, Andy pulls off Miranda's panties and tosses them on the chair next to her.

Still kneeling, Andy smiles up at Miranda. "Open your legs for me." She doesn't make it an order, despite the words, more of a strongly desired request, but Miranda responds immediately and does as Andy asks. Without hesitation, Andy parts the folds with her hands and buries her mouth over the swollen clit that protrudes enough for her to wrap her lips around it. Caressing Miranda's thighs gently, Andy makes sure Miranda knows she's not going to stop until Miranda has come—or tells her too—whichever happens first.

"Andrea!" Miranda buries her fingers in Andy's hair. She undulates against Andy, keening unintelligible words until she grows rigid. "Oh!"

Andy feels the pulsations and softens the way her tongue glide and flicks over Miranda's rock hard clit. Eventually, as Miranda's knees look like they're losing cohesion, she stands, finding herself rather wobbly as well, and hugs Miranda close. "I have you."

"You…sure do," Miranda says, clutching at Andy. "Don't let go."

The last words pierce Andy's soul and fill her with tenderness at the same time. "I won't," she whispers and wonders if Miranda hears the resolve and sacred promise in her voice. "I won't let go."

xxxxx

Continued in part 32