Posted 2024-09-04 | Beta'd by Eeyorefan12


As if he'd walked in on Bella naked, Mr. Cullen turned swiftly away. "Miss Swan, I'm sorry for intruding. We'll wait for you"—he looked pointedly at the other men—"in the sitting room."

Mumbling apologies, the men walked away as Bella stared after them, bewildered.

"Bun or braids?" Esme asked again, clearly unbothered by the interruption.

"I . . . um, ponytail," Bella muttered, struggling to absorb this latest shock. Why was the man from Mr. Morris's estate here? Was he complicit in whatever this was? He had to be.

Met with Esme's sincere and earnest questions about what a ponytail was and how to form it, Bella gave up. "Which is easier?" She gestured to Rose's braids and Esme's bun.

Esme answered by quickly and dexterously wrapping Bella's hair into a tidy double-dutch crown, pinning a piece of ivory lace to the center. "One more thing," she said quietly, stilling Bella with a hand to her shoulder and bringing out a matching lace choker.

"I don't need jewelry," Bella said, already rising.

"For the sake of propriety, please." Esme's tone suggested they were approaching the bounds of her patience.

Suppressing a sigh, Bella fastened it in place before following Esme out of the room.

Dizziness hindered her progress on the stairs. She gripped the railing tightly, determined to get to the people who could give her answers—real answers—starting with what Mr. Cullen was doing here. He shared a last name with Esme. Was he the Edward she'd mentioned?

She followed Esme through two long hallways to a bright sitting room. It too could have been transplanted from Mr. Morris' estate, except it was cleaner and better smelling. There were hints of rosemary—maybe jasmine too, she thought. Arched window niches bordered the high-ceilinged room, the tiled floor ringed with a thick repeating border—a meander, she recalled. Also Greek revival. A heavy carpet dampened the men's already subdued voices.

As one, they stood, nodding politely as Bella and Esme entered. There were more of them than she had seen upstairs, at least a dozen.

Esme stepped forward. "Gentlemen, Miss Swan. Miss Swan, I believe you have met my son, Mr. Edward Cullen. These gentlemen form the rest of the committee on reparations."

Her conjecture regarding Mr. Cullen confirmed, Bella took the seat that was offered, surprisingly unnerved when Esme left the room.

In the silence that followed, the men retook their seats before settling their respective gazes on her. Faced with this scattered audience, a familiar stage fright gripped her. She shook it off, turning her scholar's eye to each of the room's occupants.

Almost immediately, she regretted the choice.

It was the hands of the man closest to her that she noticed first. His thick fingers curled over a pair of fine gloves and into his palms, culminating in long, yellowy brown . . . claws.

Bella blinked and refocused. Shifting her attention one man over, she checked his hands and found the same. And the next, and the next. There was a ringing in her ears. Someone was talking. The voice repeated itself.

Bella swallowed, still staring at the last set of hands.

"Miss Swan?"

The ringing stopped. "Yes?" She dragged her gaze to the speaker, the only person in the room she recognized.

A few low chortles brought her fully to her senses, embarrassment at being so caught-out making her cheeks warm.

Focus, she told herself. Stage makeup. It was stage makeup. People don't have claws.

There was a sigh from the back of the room. "Their presence doesn't do much for our cause, does it?"

The obvious scoffing was enough to brush away her nerves. These jackassess had something to do with her being abducted. "And what is your cause, exactly?"

She watched Mr. Cullen glare at the speaker before turning back to face her. Before he could say anything, he was interrupted again.

"How does she understand us?" a man asked. "You said she only met you once."

Mr. Cullen frowned again. "I don't know. I'd suggest asking the keepers."

"I'm not sure why everyone is asking why I can understand you when you're speaking English," Bella said. Were they really expecting her to pretend they weren't? "More importantly, I'd like to go home. You can keep playing reenactment or whatever the he—this is after."

She noticed several raised eyebrows from the men, who then turned their gazes to the gray-haired man at the front of the room.

Silence fell. Hands resting on the top of his cane, the man regarded Bella imperiously. "Describe again your interaction with Miss Swan," he demanded.

Because I'm not right here, jerk?

"We met while inspecting archival materials," Mr. Cullen said.

"There was contact?"

Mr. Cullen looked mildly annoyed. "Yes, as I said before, she touched my hand."

"Which was ungloved."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because wearing gloves would have drawn attention to myself." His tone communicated his impatience.

The man gave a quiet humph in reply.

Though irked at being ignored, Bella kept quiet, still feeling slightly queasy. She still didn't know where she was and offending these people wasn't in her best interests, but the temptation to confront them was strong. Instead, she listened, studying the room's occupants. Sure enough, gloves were draped over the men's knees or poked out of suit pockets. If this was a reenactment, the attention to detail was spectacular.

Except for the claws.

She glanced at Mr. Cullen, whose fingers were reassuringly normal.

"Mr. Othonos", Mr. Cullen said, "the customs have altered considerably—"

"I'm aware."

Mr. Cullen dropped his head slightly. He wasn't very good at hiding his frustration. She could relate, especially now.

She sighed out loud.

"It was an error, certainly, but not enough to create any entanglement. Not so late in your service, at least," Mr. Othonos finally said. "An unlikely thread we've followed to its conclusion."

Several men gave grunting acknowledgements.

Entanglement?

"Miss Swan," Mr. Othonos said, finally speaking directly to her, "in your original environs, did you meet anyone new in the last few weeks? Any strangers whose appearance seemed unusual? Were you offered unfamiliar food or drink? Perhaps you were given a new tonic?"

Did he think she lived in a convent? In 1820? "Of course I meet new people. What're you talking about?"

"Circumstances have altered rapidly in the last decades, Sir. If you would read—"

"I will read your report later, Mr. Cullen. Human nature and physiology haven't changed that much since my last severance."

"Respectfully, sir, they have."

Mr. Othonos shot him a warning look, and Mr. Cullen looked down again, a tight jaw at odds with the seeming deference.

"Were you injured recently?" Mr. Othonos asked Bella.

"Aside from nearly being poisoned by the two men from before?"

More uncomfortable looks circulated.

"Ah, yes, unfortunate but unintentional, I assure you. As to your request, Miss Swan, we will return you home when doing so will not endanger anyone." Mr. Othonos rubbed his hands over the ornate silver knob of his cane. It was a woman's head, Bella saw, the features faded from wear, but the high cheekbones and head scarf were clear. "When would that be, Mr. Stamatakis?"

" Damátrios, perhaps. Not the next, but the following."

Mr. Othonos nodded.

"Eighteen months, Miss Swan," Mr. Cullen said, "or thereabouts."

"Eight—" Beyond livid, Bella stood up. "This is ridiculous." Unhelpfully, the dizziness returned, stalling her briefly before she strode from the room, pushing open doors until she found herself in a large foyer. They couldn't keep her here against her will. She needed to find her own way out of wherever this was. Outside, she blinked against the bright sunlight, shading her eyes with her hand.

The wide portico steps lined up perfectly with the tree-lined avenue that disappeared into swaths of fields. Tall bushy shrubs lined the fence immediately in front of her, their pink pom pom flowers rustling in the breeze. The trees swayed too, their long, thin, and . . . striped trunks running up to their frizzled blue fronds, from which sprang sprays of tightly budded fruit.

She stared, trying to reconcile what she saw with what she knew could be real. Blue trees were not on the list.

"Miss Swan?"

"It's just Bella." She had enough on her mind. The formality of Mr. Cullen's words felt like it might be the thing that pushed her over the edge.

Behind her, he remained silent, and Bella was grateful.

She looked at the grass, a familiar and reassuring shade of green. The silver-gray of the fence was comfortingly typical too. There was a bray from a distant donkey. Bella looked to her left and then her right, noting the red geraniums flowering in the boxes hung from the pale stone porch railings. Very normal.

In the distance, people in wide-brimmed hats moved through the fields.

Also very normal . . . for a 19th century Southern plantation.

She exhaled, walking towards the railing and leaning against it. Thoughts of marching off on her own had evaporated. Clearly, they were in the middle of nowhere.

The house was large. The family—if they were one—was well off. Or up to their ears in debt.

"Why are you here?" she asked him.

"I didn't think you should be alone."

"I mean here here." She waved towards the fields.

"I live here, Miss Swan."

Annoyed, she exhaled sharply. "I met you yesterday . . . or, I don't know if I've lost a day or even two . . . but it was just before I appeared here. You don't think that's a bit of a coincidence?"

"I don't think it's a coincidence at all, but our interaction last week wasn't enough to bring you here." He sounded frustrated. "I don't know how you came to be here. I'd tell you if I did—as I'd tell the committee. I'm sorry I don't have answers for you."

A week? She'd been sick that long? And here that whole time? What about school? Her father? Jason? They wouldn't know where she was. Mr. Cullen seemed sincere enough but this needed to end and she needed to get home.

"How do I get to town?"

"To Presga? Well, the town is—"

She gave him a sharp look over her shoulder.

He cleared his throat before taking a few steps closer. "I can take you there. It will take some time. We'd arrive after dark."

Of course they would. No doubt it was Sunday too, and everything would be closed, given the way her day was going.

"What would you do . . . in town?" he asked.

"Leave!" She flung her arms out in consternation.

"I see. You don't believe Mr. Stamatakis's estimate."

"No, I'm kinda having a hard time with the 'you're on a different planet' part."

Beside her now, Mr. Cullen studied his hands, sliding them along the balustrade. They were gloved again.

"Why me?" Bella asked. "What is this"—she waved at her clothing, the house, the fields—"all about?"

"As I said, I don't know why you were taken. As to your second question—I'm not sure how to answer."

Fear was beginning to eat away at the edge's of Bella's anger.

"Why are the tree tops blue?"

"Glyka are . . . blue."

"Well, they look ridiculous. They look like . . . like Dr. Seuss drew them."

This earned her a wry smile. "Yes, they do. Mr. Geisel"—he looked pointedly at Bella—"his real name—made his home in your country."

"No. He was American. He was born there. I know because . . ." Bella paused, abruptly considering that perhaps her fourth grade research project wasn't terribly relevant. "He didn't make it his home," she finished weakly.

"As you say." He eyed her carefully as he spoke. "So the trees, they seem unusual to you. Is there anything else you've seen that's . . . unexpected?"

She recalled the claws. "The clothes, obviously. They're absurd."

His lips twitched, but the empathetic expression remained. "I can imagine. Is there anything else?"

The donkey's bray grew louder.

Bella looked in the direction Mr. Cullen was pointing. Pulling a wagon were two four-legged creatures.

"Those"—she shook her head—"they—"

"Look like something from a book?"

"They're fake, or made up, or—"

"I assure you they're not."

The open wagon stopped, the driver hopping down, nodding to Mr. Cullen and Bella as he lifted baskets of produce from the back. Bella stared at the animals. Their similarity to horses ended with size. With their thick legs, swishing tales, and long mustaches, they were closer to Capybaras.

"The Alogo are very gentle, and they're very real."

The tall, dark-haired man with the baskets mounted the stairs. "Thank you, Mr. Filo," Mr. Cullen said.

Mr. Filo smiled in return, glancing behind them as a female figure stepped onto the porch.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Filo." Mr. Cullen nodded to her.

As Bella followed his gaze, her fingers and toes went numb. The gray-skinned Mrs. Filo adjusted her headscarf, accepting the basket from Mr. Filo and then a kiss to her cheek.

As the couple spoke, their syllables melted to meaninglessness. Bella felt dizzy again. She thought of the gray-skinned creature she'd woken beside. The one who had died. The one who couldn't possibly be real.

The woman before her couldn't be real.

But she was.

"Ti trechi?" Mr. Cullen grasped her elbow. "Matrios Swan? Bella?"

She shook her head, the sounds around her remaining unintelligible. Turning away, she measured out three deep breaths, which seemed to help. "I'm . . . okay."

Mr. Cullen looked dubious. "If you are sure, the committee would like to continue speaking with you. I know this is difficult. I can ask them to return another time."

Grateful that his words again made sense, Bella nodded, abstracted. The sunlight was dimming far faster than usual. She must be very tired. Glancing upward, she watched the giant peach slide towards the horizon, the first of an array of celestial bodies that no fakery could produce.

She swallowed. "I'll speak to the committee. I'm sure they want . . . I have no idea what they want. B see ut perhaps they have . . . answers for me." She wasn't sure she wanted them, but prepared or not, she needed them.


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