The Maid of Ireland
“said a cultured, nasal voice. Very proper. Oxford or Cambridge. The clerics at Douai would be surprised to know St. Peter was an Englishman.
Wesley tried to lift his eyelids. Tried again. Failed. Exasperated, he used his fingers to pry them open. Blue sky and billowy clouds. Dull white wings stretched against the wind. Had he somehow escaped Satan’s horseman, after all?
“What’s that?” His voice rasped from a throat scoured raw by the hangman’s noose.
“I said,” came St. Peter’s voice..., “you’re a lucky man.”
Wesley frowned. Why was St. Peter talking like a Gray’s Inn barrister? A cool shadow passed over him. He blinked, and the shape came into focus. A high-collared cloak, not an angel’s robes. A face he recognized, and it wasn’t the face of St. Peter.
“God’s blood!” he said. “John Thurloe! Are you dead, too?”
“I wasn’t the last time I checked.”MoreLess
Wesley tried to lift his eyelids. Tried again. Failed. Exasperated, he used his fingers to pry them open. Blue sky and billowy clouds. Dull white wings stretched against the wind. Had he somehow escaped Satan’s horseman, after all?
“What’s that?” His voice rasped from a throat scoured raw by the hangman’s noose.
“I said,” came St. Peter’s voice..., “you’re a lucky man.”
Wesley frowned. Why was St. Peter talking like a Gray’s Inn barrister? A cool shadow passed over him. He blinked, and the shape came into focus. A high-collared cloak, not an angel’s robes. A face he recognized, and it wasn’t the face of St. Peter.
“God’s blood!” he said. “John Thurloe! Are you dead, too?”
“I wasn’t the last time I checked.”MoreLess
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