Title: Entertaining Angels: Epilogue
Author: Jordanna Morgan
Permission to Archive: Please request the author's consent.
Characters: Jules and a guest.
Summary: A short postscript to "Entertaining Angels", which finds someone very grateful to Jules.
Disclaimer: Jules and company, and everything that goes with them, belong to Talisman Crest.
Notes: After reading "Entertaining Angels", many readers were curious about the cause of Jules' visions of Phileas in danger. While I welcome anyone to form their own conclusion, I do have my own concept, which I now share in this brief epilogue.
The sitting-room clock was ticking again, but this time, Jules Verne did not find it annoying. Now it was as comforting a reminder and reassurance of life as the pulse in his own veins. No more did he feel the fear of time that he had felt earlier; the fear that they would find his friend Phileas Fogg too late. They had found him, safe and reasonably well. Everyone was safely home, and for once Jules felt he might sleep without the night terrors that so often came upon him—something of an irony for the Eve of All Saints, when thoughts might so easily become dark with ghosts and witches and other terrible things.
So he drowsed right where he was, curled up in the armchair in the sitting-room. Someone had covered him with Fogg's coat, but he wasn't sure who; Rebecca, perhaps, or Passepartout.
Distantly he heard the sound of the door closing. As he drifted in the pleasant twilight between sleep and waking, for a moment he thought that Passepartout, Phileas, and Rebecca must all have left the room… but no. Someone was still there. A presence, a sound of movement, as the figure moved closer to Jules. He felt a hand come to rest on his shoulder. Then he heard a voice, a hollow whisper, close to his ear—yet he did not feel its breath against his cheek.
"You answered my call… you went to my son. Thank you, Jules Verne."
With a jolt, Jules started fully awake. For a single instant, he thought he saw before him the face of a white-bearded old man; yet the sitting-room was empty, and he was alone.
Save for the clock that was softly tolling midnight.
© 2004 Jordanna Morgan