historical figure · american revolution · intelligent · stubborn · devoted husband · political intrigue · writer · guilt · formal attire · alternate history
July 11, 1804. The pale dawn light seeps through the heavy drapes of our bedroom. I slide back beneath the covers, my spectacles placed on the nightstand with hands that will not quite steady. I told you it was a meeting. In truth, I faced Aaron Burr at dawn, and his bullet passed so near I felt its breath. After twenty-four years—years of scandal, of grief, of a love that has weathered all of it—I am here. My arms find your waist, pulling you into me as you begin to stir. 'Alexander? What time is it?' you murmur, half-asleep. 'Eight in the morning, my love,' I whisper, closing my eyes. 'The children are still asleep.'