Posted 2024-08-31 | Beta'd by Eeyorefan12

Consciousness came in brief bouts, flickers of fuzzy awareness breaking up her febrile dreams. The plaster ceiling appeared in a few of them, then the faces of the white-haired men. In the clearest images, a woman's face hovered, chestnut hair framing her concerned features.

Time felt simultaneously stretched out and contracted. It was daytime one moment and night the next—seemingly forever. The pattern repeated unpredictably. Aching, fevered, and disoriented, Bella slept fitfully.

When the fever broke, it was like a switch. One minute she was burning hot, and then she blinked awake, hunger gnawing at her gut.

She shifted in the bed, arms sore and weak as she pushed herself up. She'd been sick. The strange dreams made sense. She rubbed her face, noting the fresh, soft robe she was wearing. Similar to the one in her dream—of course, that made sense.

Different room. Different bed—this one had a mattress. Light filtered in through tall windows covered by heavy drapes, and dark wainscoting was topped with pale plaster walls dotted by gas bulbs. Someone's home? A white and blue vase sat on the small bedside table nearest her. Its edges were marked with a familiar running scrolls pattern, with endless waves circling the base.

The recognition made her glance again at the furniture and drapes. "Greek revival," she said softly.

There was a quiet murmur at the door before it swung open, and a woman stepped in. Oddly, she was dressed like a participant in a historical reenactment. Bella couldn't say which period. Her clothing was a strange mixture of regency and antebellum.

"Okto, you're awake." The woman closed the door, smiling gently.

Okto?

"I'm Esme." The woman spoke these words much more slowly, her voice heavy with some sort of accent as if English wasn't her first language. Her bright green eyes, focused intently on Bella, were set in a heart-shaped face crowned by chestnut hair—the woman who had featured in her dreams.

The door opened again, revealing a younger and taller woman whose blonde hair was swept up in a crown of braids. Her eyes were the same shade as Esme's, and she turned her attention to Bella as well. "Oh! Why didn't you say something?"

"I was just coming to check and found her awake." Esme's words were rapid and perfectly crisp. No accent. When she turned back to Bella, her voice slowed again, the accent returning. "What's your name?"

"Bella."

Esme nodded. "You must be hungry, Bella." She turned to the blonde woman. "Can you get something mild for our guest?"

"I'll see what Tabitha has ready."

"Not Tabitha—not here, at least." Esme lifted an eyebrow. "Penelope would be better, if not you."

"Of course." The younger woman shook her head in a gesture of—embarrassment? Chagrin? Bella didn't know which, but the conversation had already confused her.

Esme patted the younger woman's arm. A gesture of familiarity. Then she smiled, turning to Bella. "Where are my manners? Bella, this is my daughter, Rose." Again, Esme's voice slowed as she addressed her.

Rose nodded towards her. "Welcome to our home, Bella. You are our guest. We are honored to host you." Her voice also took on the slow, accented cadence.

Bella imitated the deliberate nod she'd seen them give, almost like a bow. "Thank you. It's, um, good to meet you." Politeness was second-nature to her, and it couldn't hurt, she decided, given that she didn't have a clue as to what was going on.

As Rose disappeared, Bella's stomach made an embarrassingly loud grumble.

Esme smiled. "Do you need the privy? To relieve yourself?"

Bella looked around the room, wondering if there was a chamber pot as before.

"Can you walk?" Esme asked.

"I think so?" Bella swung her legs over the side of the bed, a wave of dizziness making her pause. "Whoa."

"I'll help." Given her height, Esme had to bend over slightly to support Bella, and they lurched awkwardly through the door. Bella scanned the wainscoted hallway for an escape route. Closed doors on all sides. More bedrooms for . . . other "guests"? Esme helped her to a small room at the end of the hall.

Assuring Esme that she didn't need help, Bella hoped her claim was true. Even though someone had obviously changed her clothing and, she assumed, assisted her with her feeding and toileting the last few days, Bella wanted a moment alone, if only to think. That and to reassert her physical independence and privacy.

The toilet was a wooden bench, the opening covered by a lid. A cupboard below hid a large pot. There was no tissue paper, but there was a cup and a bucket of water.

At least the sink had hot running water.

Still dizzy, she needed Esme's help to walk back to the room, where someone had left a tray of food by the bed. Bella was hungrier than she'd realized, quickly devouring the entire bowl of bland porridge. The cup of liquid she eyed more suspiciously, recalling the fire in her throat.

"Is it just water?" she asked, wondering what had been added to the water she'd already had—or if it had been unsanitary. That would explain the illness.

"No," Esme said. "Mother's tea. Our water won't agree with you for some time. This is safe for you to drink though. Not like what you were given when you . . . well, before."

So she knew about that. Who was this woman? Bella thought again of the cult members she'd seen on the news. Were these people connected? They'd taken good enough care of her, and they hadn't meant to poison her . . . at least not to kill her. Bella took a tentative sip before consuming the rest of the liquid, bits and pieces of the memory knitting themselves together—

Her line of thought was interrupted by the quick double-knock preceding Rose's arrival with a basket of clothing.

"Okto," Esme said, taking it from her daughter and setting it down. "I knew we'd kept some of those. Now, Bella, what about this one?" She held up a long, pale blue dress.

Was she supposed to have an opinion? "Um—"

Rose sighed and frowned. "At least give her a dignified choice, Mother. Even offlanders don't want to look like overdressed little girls. Aunt Leah's dresses are at least a woman's apparel."

Off Lander? A name for a non-believer, maybe?

"Oh, it's fine—it's lovely," Bella said quickly, realizing her hesitation had been misconstrued. She didn't want to offend these people before she figured out if she was in danger from them. "Not a girl's dress at all." And it wasn't. The full length muslin garment was elegantly smocked at the top, delicate cap sleeves framing a square neckline.

"You understood me." Rose sounded surprised.

Bella nodded.

"And . . . you understand me?" Esme asked, her accent gone.

Again, Bella nodded. "Why wouldn't I?"

"I apologize. I assumed you didn't know our language." Esme looked to Rose, quickly smoothing away her frown. "You're right—Aunt Leah's dresses will probably fit. If you can find a summer smock that won't be too long, and I'm sure I have one of the"—she picked up a tan-colored length of thick fabric—"here, a demi-support. I don't doubt our guest would like to wear more than a nightgown for the day."

The costumes were convincing—as was the acting. But Bella had played along enough with whatever this was—cult delusion, reenactment—who knew. Her patience was running thin. It was time for answers, although she needed to tread carefully. Someone had abducted her. Maybe these people weren't from the group she'd seen on the news. An affiliated one? Whoever they were, they seemed fully committed to their narrative, and that could make them equally dangerous.

Soon, feeling like she'd been dropped onto a movie set, Bella stood behind a screen, staring at the strange articles of clothing. The longer she stared, the more certain she was that she'd seen a moment just like this in a recent film, and she muttered to herself, "What the actual f—"

"Do you need help?" Esme asked from the other side of the screen.

Play along. She still knew next to nothing about these people; they seemed nice enough but they could be insane. Some type of mass delusion? "Uh, I'm good. Thanks."

Esme had explained the order in which to don the items. Bella put on the linen slip, stockings, and separate sleeves, but after staring at the 'demi-support', finally gave up.

"Maybe I do need some help."

In a few minutes, Esme had her fitted into the corset. Much like a bra, the straps ran over her shoulders, the rest of it wrapped around her chest and over the linen slip, holding it in place. A dark green muslin dress went over everything.

Bella stared at her surreal image in the mirror.

Rose returned with combs and a brush. "Edward's back. I told him that our guest is doing well." Her tone suggested there was more to the "well" than just that. "The committee is here too."

Esme paused, closing her eyes and exhaling. "Yes, they are." Much more quietly she muttered, "Gashte."

Seated in front of the mirror, Bella watched as Esme drew a brush through her hair, watching this minor drama—for it was acting, after all—wondering what her part in it was. That and who Edward was.

"They wish to—"

"I know," Esme said. "I'll help Bella finish up, and then I'll see to our visitors."

"Won't Edward want to—?"

"What your brother wants is somewhat immaterial right now." Esme's tone was terse. She folded the last of the clothes, handing the basket to Rose. "A bit of prejere aside, he's fine." She turned back to Bella. "Bun or braids?"

"Answers, please."

Esme paused, setting the brush down. "I'm afraid I won't be much help with those."

"I'd like to hear what you know." Polite and kind as Esme had been, she was part of the ruse. "It appears I've been kidnapped, tied up, possibly poisoned or drugged. I've had enough of the dress-ups—or reenactment or whatever this is." Her even voice contrasted with her thudding heart. "Who are you? Where am I? Who took me? And how do I get home?"

Esme sighed. Beside her, Rose frowned.

In the distance, Bella heard men's voices, their volume growing.

"I don't know what you mean by reenactment, but I'm Esme Cullen, matriarch. You're on our family farm, near Presga in Southern Sabellia, on Aristea—a planet you've never heard of. As for who took you, I'm afraid I don't know. The Pisma—a scouting party—found you, rescued you. I . . . don't know how you'll return home—or when."

Planet? Bella thought of the gray body she'd woken next to. That had been a dream—she was sure of it. That these people thought they were from another world—holy hell.

The distant voices were louder now.

Wait, Esme . . . Cullen? Wasn't that—?

Bella heard a shout and tensed, the trill of remembered gunfire fresh again. A reenactment, she reminded herself—it couldn't be real, even if it felt that way. But whether it was a reenactment or a cult, none of it made sense.

"No one here will harm you," Esme said, gently touching Bella's elbow. "However, the committee will want to see you. I . . . you should not see them like this." Esme gestured to Bella's loose hair.

"You want to braid my hair."

"Yes."

"Before I get answers?"

"Yes."

It was ridiculous. She'd played along enough already with whatever this group delusion was. Huffing out a breath, Bella stood up, marched to the door and yanked it open. Gathered in the stairwell were three suit-clad men in hushed conversation with each other.

As one, they fell silent, rapidly averting their joint stare. But when the tallest of the group glanced back slightly, revealing the striking features she'd tried to sketch that morning at the Morris estate, it was clear the day's disorienting surprises were far from over.

"Mr. Cullen?"

Disclaimer: S. Meyer owns Twilight. No copyright infringement intended.