Her body was found underneath Lover's Bridge. She laid on her back, eyes open to the stars, a faint smile etched into her porcelain face. Dark curls flowed over the grass like a crown set ablaze. She looked as if a child, watching the midnight sky on the banks of Shallow Creek, her feet wading in the frigid water as the hem of her purple dress swayed with the current. Her mother, the moon, looked down on the child, upon the innocence that was soiled by temptation and greed, and cried for her loss. For her fallen beauty.

Mr. Thompson, a stout gentleman of five and forty, discovered Madam Lorena on his walk home from Bailey's Tavern. For a reason not quite understood, he felt a compelling notion to drift upon Lover's Bridge and look at the majestic moon hanging swollen in the night. While he admired the moon's illumination, a water creature, either a fish or a frog, plopped in the creek causing quite a bit of splash, attracting the attention of Mr. Thompson. As he looked over the moss covered stonewall, he saw a figure lying on the bank, hands carefully clasped over her corseted belly, eyes wide open to the darkness.

"Madam Lorena?" he called, "what in God's green earth has possessed you to lay so indiscreetly?" 

The creature laid unstirred. 

"Madam Lorena?" he squinted his eyes as if to focus on her delicate features. The sting of the autumn breeze pierced through his double-breasted coat, causing tears to form at the corner of his crinkled eyes. Yes, he was quite certain it was the wife of Mr. Anders, the only young woman foolish enough to be out past dark. 

He stumbled down the bridge, steadying himself with his hand on the stonewall while stealing a glance at the town of Mortushire behind him. Mr. Thompson did not take pleasure in town gossip, but his intuition foretold the other wives would chirp with accusations once they heard of Madam Lorena's further indiscretion. As he hobbled towards the sleeping maiden, Mortushire remained in an oblivious stillness.

"Pray, my lady, if you do not quit yourself of your activity, I fear you will catch a dreadful cold," he coughed as he wobbled down the bridge, breath thick with fumes of Bailey's infamous brew. But his pleas fell deaf to the lying lady. He continued his progression across the dewy grass that led to Shallow Creek. 

"Madam Lorena?" he called once more as he approached her unmoving body. He removed his tall hat and stood over her, blinking in focus at her picturesque smile. 

"Dear heavens," he whispered, stumbling away from his unfortunate realization. A sudden sobriety came to Mr. Thompson as he returned to the bridge and rushed towards the heart of Mortushire in search of the recently widowed Mr. Anders.

The moon followed the gentlemen as he scurried through the slumbering town. He cautiously walked with haste, fearful of attracting curious eyes that lingered behind half-parted tapestries. As he approached the two-story manor, he quickly ascended the stone steps and knocked on the wooden door.

"Mr. Anders," he said as he quietly pounded on the door's smooth surface. "Mr. Anders!" He looked around, hoping his cries would go unheard by the neighbors. On his second plea, the door was opened by an elderly woman in a white nightgown and blue robe fastened around her frail frame. Her disdainful annoyance flickered in the candle she held in her worn, wrinkled hand. 

"Forgive me madam, I must speak with Mr. Anders at once," Mr. Thompson gasped.

"Of course, sir," she muttered, stepping back to open the door. Mr. Thompson stepped into the dark parlor, removing his hat while his attention strayed to the grand staircase before him.

"Mind you wait here sir, while I fetch the master," said the servant as she turned and disappeared into the darkness. The soft yellow globe of candle light dissipated as she proceeded up the stairs and down a corridor on the second floor. With considerable promptness, the globe of light resurfaced to the landing, Mr. Anders following closely behind the flustered maid as they descended to the parlor. The surfacing of age in the silver lines polluting Mr. Anders' dark hair glistened like stars by the candle's dancing flame. Mr. Thompson swiftly rushed towards him, preventing any syllable to cross the gentlemen's lips.

"Forgive me Mr. Anders, but I come with the most dreadful news concerning your wife."

Mr. Anders' composed face twitched slightly at the mention of Madam Lorena, his brow arching with curiosity. "Speak freely Mr. Thompson," said the patient gentleman.

"I fear your wife is dead, sir. I recently left my company at Baileys and ventured over Lover's Bridge where I spotted your wife lying in the bank. Of course, I thought it odd for the madam to be lying there without purpose so—"

"Pardon me sir, but you said you were at Baileys?" Mr. Anders interrupted, stepping away from the pressing Mr. Thompson.

"Of course sir, on a matter of business I tell you. But please sir, if I may."

Mr. Anders nodded.

"I went to your wife sir. I called to her several times, but she did not stir."

"I'm afraid you're mistaken Mr. Thompson. Madam Lorena has returned to the country on the account of her ailing father. She left early this morning and will return within a fortnight."

"Mr. Anders, I beg you to listen. Your wife lies dead under Lover's Bridge." Mr. Thompson looked into the shadowed eyes of Mr. Anders, searching for an expression amongst the flickering flame that danced over his motionless face. "Mr. Anders, did you understand me?"

"You are certain there's a body?" he said quietly, looking past Mr. Thompson.

"Indeed sir, unfortunately so."

Mr. Anders remained quiet, looking past Mr. Thompson standing in front of the main entrance, as if searching for answers lost to him forever. "Miss Winston?" he called over his shoulder. The elderly maid returned fully dressed, annoyance hidden within the crow's-feet that spiraled from her blue eyes.

"Yes, sir?" came her coarse reply.

"Send word to Dr. Falmouth that a body's been discovered by Lover's Bridge. Mr. Thompson and I shall meet him at Shallow Creek to check on the matter. Please be discreet Miss Winston, the town need not be involved."

"Of course, sir." She bowed her head and turned swiftly out of sight. Mr. Anders returned his gaze to Mr. Thompson's flushed concern. "Excuse me Mr. Thompson, while I dress myself properly," he said quietly, turning away from the flustered gentleman.

"Have you no concern for your wife? She lays dead on the banks of Shallow Creek. How can you remain so composed?" blurted Mr. Thompson in between fits of heavy breathing. Beads of sweat rained down his rosy face into the folds of his neck.

Mr. Anders stood on the first step of the staircase, his back towards the flustered Mr. Thompson.

"As I said Mr. Thompson, my wife has returned to her father's estate in the country. Shortly after her safe arrival this afternoon, she sent a note stating so, as was promised. As you see, Mr. Thompson, the woman you claim to have discovered on Shallow Creek couldn't possibly be my wife."

Mr. Thompson searched for words to convince the man, but he feared they would fall unheard just as had occurred with the recently departed Madam Lorena.

"I pray you're right, sir" he replied with defeat.

Upon their return to Shallow Creek, a small group of townspeople gathered upon Lover's Bridge, whispering, speculating, feigning tears for the unfortunate young woman. 

"Must nothing be kept sacred in this town," muttered Mr. Thompson as he walked Mr. Anders down the bridge to the banks of Shallow Creek. Dr. Falmouth and two town officers stood over the body lying on the wet grass, her face hidden to the approaching gentlemen. Dr. Falmouth turned to the approaching men, a solemn look on his thin juvenile face.

"Mr. Anders," he said leaving the body. "Mr. Anders, I'm dreadfully sorry, but I don't think—"

Mr. Anders pushed past the doctor and his cautioning pleas. "Mr. Anders, please!" called out the young doctor. As he approached the two officers, his eyes finally fell on the crystalline features of the fallen maiden, her pale face glowing with artificial life by the grace of the moon. A sharp breath escaped his parted lips as he fell to his knees before his wife, gathering her lifeless body in his arms. Tears pooled in his eyes and spilled onto her frozen smile. Mr. Thompson and Dr. Falmouth stood around the wailing husband with pity and grief bleeding from their eyes.

From within the growing crowd upon the bridge, Reverend James broke free and bellowed, "Suicide! I presumed this would happen gentlemen." He addressed the men as he approached the bank, his black ministry cloak spreading in the wind like wings of a raven. "Of course, as you are all aware, she cannot, by God's good grace, be buried upon holy ground."

"By God Reverend, the young woman has just died. Be considerate of Mr. Anders," said Mr. Thompson.

The Reverend sneered at the stout Mr. Thompson. "Madam Lorena has long walked the path of impropriety. Her death comes at no surprise."

"Reverend James. Now is not the time, sir" said Dr. Falmouth rather sharply. The moon reflected off his youthful maturity, giving him the appearance of young boy rather than a man of seven and twenty. His hair flowed in brown waves to the nape of his neck and white collar, his pale blue eyes glowing like clear pools of water against the death-ridden night. 

"Dr. Falmouth, you, as well as every good gentleman here, is fully aware of Madam Lorena's society. For months she has acted with childish disdain towards God and Mr. Anders, conducting improper relations outside her marriage, even calling upon you, good sir, for matters unidentified. And may I add, on numerous occasions."

"Hold your tongue, Reverend," said the young doctor, approaching the middle-aged man. "My visits were on account of Madam Lorena's health."

"Her health, indeed doctor. Now tell me, did Madam Lorena's health warrant several visits a week? Or were you assisting with her other ailments."

"How dare you!" Dr. Falmouth charged at the reverend but was held back by Mr. Thompson.

"A lover's reaction! How fitting," sneered the Reverend as Dr. Falmouth struggled to free himself from Mr. Thompson.

"Reverend James, would you please," yelled Mr. Anders in sobs. "My wife is dead."

"Forgive me, Mr. Anders, but your wife's affairs were no secret. Such sins cause a heavy burden, and her suicide comes as a result of her guilt."

"How can you be so sure it was a suicide, Reverend," said Dr. Falmouth, breaking free from the heaving Mr. Thompson, "her body has not had a proper examination."

"An examination would be quite unnecessary, Doctor. Treacherous females such as Lorena Anders have no place in society. And as such, are at no liberty to receive such care."

"Reverend James. Your unnatural disdain alarms my soul," Dr. Falmouth spat. His soft brown eyes watered under the cruelty cast upon Madam Lorena.

Mr. Anders rose from his wife's body and spoke to Dr. Falmouth, his gaze remaining on the lifeless smile of Madam Lorena. "Please, gentlemen. Madam Lorena may have been at fault, but now is not the time to argue. Dr. Falmouth, I wish to have her removed from the cold. Please arrange for her examination."

"Mr. Anders—" protested the Reverend.

"I will hear no more, Reverend. My heart cannot bear it."

Dr. Falmouth cast a quizzical look at the Reverend before motioning towards the two officers. "As you wish sir."

Madam Lorena was hoisted onto a weathered board, her smile beaming towards the moon as she was carried from her peaceful bank through the whispering crowd gathered on Lover's Bridge.

"It was only a matter of time..."

"One of her many lovers, no doubt..."

"Poor unfortunate Mr. Anders..."

The women chattered amongst themselves as they clung to their husbands while they looked upon Madam Lorena for the last time. Water dripped from her black boots, creating a trail of her last journey through Mortushire to Dr. Falmouth's office. Her violet gown hung over the board as her bare arms separated over her chest. As the crowd followed the slain maiden, the young doctor paused upon the arch of the bridge and looked towards the moon hanging in solitude in the dark canvased sky. Mr. Anders remained on the bank, staring at the silent trickle of Shallow Creek while the Reverend whispered into his ear. 

A deep sigh released from Dr. Falmouth's clenched breast as tear spilled from his eyes. Sorrow, regret, and heartbreak flowed from his soul as he silently grieved upon the bridge. He left Mr. Anders to his thoughts and began his journey to his office, and the painful reality of his fallen lover.

Madam Lorena awaited the young doctor in his dark lifeless examination room, hands crossed over her violet corset while her dark curls spilled over her icy flesh. Her brown eyes remained open, staring at the boarded ceiling as if searching for her moon that grieved on the other side. Dr. Falmouth stood by the wooden door, afraid to move towards his daunting task as she laid on the examination table in the center of the room. Tears spilled freely over the brims of his eyes, his heart splintered in his chest. He slowly forced his way towards the lifeless body, each step weighing heavy with remorse. She looked incandescently beautiful despite the touch of death removing her colorful spirit. He clutched her porcelain hand in his own, and with his other, closed her eyes to the cruelty of her world.

"Forgive me," he whispered. He hunched over her body, holding both her hands, and gave into his contained grief. In the midst of his tears, the screech of a fired gun pierced the silent night followed by the frightened screams of a woman. Dr. Falmouth abandoned his lover and hurried towards the window behind him. Miss Winston burst from the Anders house, across the way, screaming in terror. He tore himself from the window and rushed to catch the terrified maid running towards his office.

"Miss Winston, what is the matter?" he asked, meeting her in the damp dirt road.

"Mr. Anders, sir, he has killed himself," she sobbed in hysterics. Dr. Falmouth ran to the Anders' manor, a cluster of armed officers trickling down from all crevices to follow suit. The group of gentlemen entered the dark parlor and climbed the stairs towards the master suite. Upon entering, they discovered the grisly sight of Mr. Anders lying on his side before the parted tapestry's, blood flowing like a stream from his right temple. On the bed, laid a sealed envelope addressed to "Dr. Jacob Falmouth."

The grieved doctor stood frozen by the doorway as three officers positioned themselves around Mr. Anders' body. "Sir, I believe this is for you," said an officer, picking up the waxed envelope and handing it to the doctor. Doctor Falmouth took it absently, staring at the lifeless body of Mr. Anders before the exposed window, moonlight penetrating the darkness of the bedroom. The young doctor sank into a chair by the door and opened the contents of the letter.

Dear Dr. Falmouth,

I write this last letter to you as a confession to the recent account of my dearest wife, Lorena Anders. I was fully aware of your intimate relation with Madam Lorena, and for months, I tried in vain to live in ignorance to the growing affair. I accept that I was incapable of providing the attention Lorena desired, and so was willing to allow her the indiscretion, which I believed she was fully under the impression was kept hidden from my acknowledgement. I'm afraid I was not the only one aware of such an arrangement.

Reverend James approached me at the start of the season, bearing news of the affair. He beseeched me to put a stop to the scandal. Of course, I pleaded with Lorena, but she promised such accusations were a scandalized falsity organized by the spiteful Reverend.

I trusted Lorena, believing with a fool's heart that she spoke the truth. But I'm afraid Reverend James refused to let the matter rest until the both of you were held responsible for such heinous acts. Forgive me, Jacob, but I confess I gave into the wicked snares of the Reverend. When he presented proof of the affair, my heart hardened with betrayal and misery. Like a cowering fool, I played into the Reverends ploy. He promised he would take care of the matter, ensuring the affair would cease. 

When Madam Lorena's father took ill, he presented the idea as an act of God. He provided me an herb I was to mix in her food before her departure to the country. He promised the herb would only make her ill, frightfully ill, but nothing more. I did as the Reverend instructed. But I was wrong, Jacob. Upon my honor, I swear I was unaware of the powerful consequences this herb possessed.

She was poisoned Jacob! She was poisoned! God forgive me! I poisoned my wife! I cannot bear the pain and the blood that has been spilt by my hands. I know how much you loved her, Jacob. A love I was incapable of providing. Forgive me, Jacob! May God forgive me!

Jonathon Anders