AURUM

. a curse reborn .

- chapter 3 -

She coule hear the rushing of ocean waves, could smell the saltiness of the brisk sea air. A gentle breeze whispered over Myra's face, softly coaxing her from a peaceful sleep.

Her eyes opened. All around her was a deep, inky darkness. She was outside, it seemed, but the moon and stars were covered with a blanket of cloud. There was no light to guide her. She couldn't see. . . Couldn't tell where she was. What happened to her room? Instantly she told herself that she'd had a crazy dream and had walked outside in her sleep. Did that explanation make sense? Of course not. But what else do you tell yourself when you wake up somewhere as strange as this?

Myra stumbled to her feet, still half asleep. Part of her mind was telling her she'd wake up right about now, the more rational part. But, of course, that thought was entirely wrong, as there was absolutely nothing rational about this situation at all. Beneath her bare toes she could feel a damp wooden floor. To her right was a railing, the wood smooth and elegantly polished. Reaching out with her left hand she discovered a wall and she ran her fingers over its painted surface. She groped her way along in the darkness, her arms outstretched at her sides, and she continued in this manner for some time, only stopping when the banister came to an end. Her left hand felt a crack in the wall, and she followed it carefully with her fingertips, hoping... Yes! Feeling the cold metal hinges beneath her fingers, she was glad to say that she had found the door, perhaps the way out of this bizarre place. Myra fumbled about for several moments more, searching for a doorknob, but instead found a small metal latch. This she lifted hastily and she shoved the door open.

The light stung her eyes as she came into the room, but she soon adjusted to the dim, flickering lantern light. When she was finally able to see where she was, she found that she was in more trouble than she could possible expected. There were three men inside the room, each one looking very bewildered. One was seated behind a wooden desk, quill in hand, holding a yellowed piece of parchment. The two others were standing on either side of him, one standing with his arms crossed and the other leaning against the side of the desk. Not one person blinked; Each felt as though they were staring at something that couldn't, didn't exist.

What strange clothes... Myra thought, noticing their brown, knee-length breeches, their black buckled shoes and their flowing, heavily embroidered coats. And of course, she couldn't help noticing their wigs. Two wore wigs of powdery white hair, the third man wore one of brown. Only now, thinking of how oddly the men were dressed, did Myra realize just what she was wearing. She was in her pajamas, a lovely little outfit consisting of a tanktop a size too small and red flannel pants a size too big. Needless to say, she was feeling rather exposed.

So there they all were, staring at each other as though the person they were looking at was an alien from outer space. No one said a word for what felt like a very long time, until the seated man cleared his throat, adjusted a pair of spectacles settled precariously on the bridge of his nose, and spoke.

"Er. . . May I help you?" There was a pause. "Miss?" Apparently he had some trouble deciding whether the polite term should have been used or not. Apparently Myra didn't look like much of a lady at the moment.

"Umm. . ." Could he help her? She doubted it. She wanted to ask where the hell she was and just what was going on, but judging from the way he'd looked at her when she stumbled into the room, Myra figured he was just as clueless as she was. "Yes. I would, um. . . Like some clothes, please."

The spectacled man gave a nod. "Henry," he said, glancing up to the brown-wigged man beside him, "get the girl some proper clothes."

"Yes, sir," came the reply, and the man (Henry, she now knew he was called) left the room.

Myra, unable to help observing such a detail, realized that these men were British. In reality, there was nothing wrong with that at all. They were British. It was no big deal right? Though Myra would have loved to say that the fact that they had such an accent was no big deal, she feared that it was one after all. She was supposed to be in America, so where was she now?

Her thoughts were interrupted by Henry's return.

"I'm sorry," he said, holding in his arms some raggedy looking clothes. "This is all I could find."

They seemed good enough to her, or at least for now. Myra took the bundle of clothing with an appreciative smile, holding it in front of her as she once more wished she'd had on a more well-fitting shirt.

"Will there be anything else?" However confused the man may have been, he seemed concerned enough for Myra to be willing to help with her predicament. She just wished she could figure out exactly what that predicament was.

"Yes. You see. . . I need to be taken to New York." Her voice was firm enough, but a tremor of uncertainly shook in her tone. Whatever sort of confident show she put on, she was as far from confident as was possible.

The three men exchanged confused glances, then looked at Myra as though she had sprouted another head. The man who had been leaning against the desk, the other one with the white wig, gave her an amused grin.

"Yorkshire, you mean?" He appeared to give a slight chuckle, as if in appreciation of some sort of joke.

Myra stared at him with a blank expression, looking as though she was waiting for someone burst out in hysterics, telling her how gullible she was to fall for such a prank. But no one did. Once more everyone's features contorted with confused.

"Um, nevermind." Myra was not about to start on any explanation. Apparently wherever or whenever she was, New York did not yet exist. "Look, could you just drop me off at the nearest port?"

Once more the men looked at one another. Henry shrugged, the second white-wigged man raised a brow, and the spectacled fellow let out a sigh.

"Very well."