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The angel was sitting by his bed when Simon Iddesleigh, sixth Viscount Iddesleigh, opened his eyes. He would've thought it a terrible dream, one of an endless succession that haunted him nightly -- or worse, that he'd not survived the beating and had made that final infinite plunge out of this world and into the flaming next. But he was almost certain hell did not smell of lavender and starch, did not feel like worn linen and down pillows, did not sound with the chirping of sparrows and the rustle of gauze curtains. And, of course, there were no angels in hell.
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Elizabeth Hoyt |