Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight

Katinki graciously edited this story

Chapter 4

You know how in books or movies when something drastic happens to the main character, the next morning they're always given those few precious moments of blissful ignorance? When they wake up and think they're at home and everything's okay?

Well, not me.

I'm denied that luxury.

Even before I open my eyes, I remember everything–every single crazy detail of last night. Jessica's grinning face hovering just a foot from mine doesn't startle me one bit.

I cover my face with my hands and let out a groan.

Undeterred, she chirps, "Good morning, madame! Breakfast is in half an hour! Or would you rather take it here in your room?!"

Every sentence sounds like there's an exclamation mark at the end.

"Would I rather take it here in my room?" I echo slowly, my voice flat.

Jessica regards me warily, and I decide this isn't a good time to break down, especially after I did so incredibly well last night.

Not to mention the fact that if I stay in my room, how will I ever find out… anything?

"I shall have breakfast with everyone. Allow me five minutes, please," I rasp and bury my head in the pillows.

Jessica cheerfully promises to be back in just that time and runs away. Her shoes produce a funny rattling noise on the wooden floor.

Groggy and still very, very tired, I turn over and stare at the ceiling.

Last night, I was in shock and numb, and I only cared about surviving in the moment. Besides, deep down, I was hoping that this "situation" would end up being an elaborate dream and that I would wake up when and where I belonged.

That obviously didn't happen.

Fighting a queasy feeling in my stomach, I prop myself on the pillows. The shock's worn off, and now, I'm just… scared. Terrified, even. What am I to do? How am I supposed to wrap my mind around this… what should I call it? Transatlantic leap into the past?

If I seriously traveled through time (which doesn't sound any less deranged this morning than it did last night, by the way), then what happened to me in the future after the opera ended? Did I just disappear or was I replaced by someone else? If I disappeared, did Alice call the police? Charlie, my dad, must be losing his mind with worry. And what about my job? Have they fired me already? Has someone found my purse and emptied my credit cards?!

Anxiety crashes over me like a tidal wave as I press my shaking hands into the hollows of my eyes. What is the Universe trying to tell me? Why am I here? Why me?!

"Why-ning won't get you anywhere." I suddenly imagine Alice's voice and her wry smile as she stares me down, arms crossed over her chest in disapproval. That's something she always says during my frequent bouts of self-pity, when I'm lying on the couch in our tiny living room, throwing my arms to the ceiling, and feeling generally miserable and dramatic. "Get up and deal, Bella. You can figure out the great meaning of all this later." If she were here now, she would then stick her tongue out and quickly hide, trying to dodge the pillow I'd undoubtedly throw at her.

I wipe the tears gathering in the corners of my eyes, sit up on the bed, and cautiously place my feet on the floor. Get up and deal… right.

Didn't I have a plan last night? Sort of?

I need to figure out how to get back home, ASAP.

Yep, that's it.

No hot dukes or Highland warriors are going to distract me from this task.

With Jessica's assistance, I'm ready for breakfast just in time. I'm wearing a simple linen dress today. Despite all the layers, morning "toilette" doesn't take too long if you forgo brushing your teeth and a shower. There is, however, a gross-looking toothbrush on the dresser, along with a little jar of what's probably toothpowder, so I might still be able to brush my teeth after breakfast. And that bath I was promised last night… please let it not be a once-in-a-while occurrence.

Jessica all but pushes me out of the room. "Sir Alistair and Lady Buchan are already downstairs, madame, please make haste."

Huh? Do my hosts have a title? It makes sense, judging by the size of the house. They can't be too high in the hierarchy, though. They looked so… normal, not like some snotty lords.

Apparently, Isabella Dwyer can't be trusted to reach a destination on her own, even if it's inside her own house–or her friends' home, or family's… or whatever. Jessica passes me to another servant, who, in turn, ushers me into a room with a large dining table. Alistair and Maggie are sitting at the end, quietly talking to each other. In the daylight, they look a little younger than I initially estimated. Alistair's bald as a cue ball, but his face is smooth, and his brown eyes are those of a young man. Maggie is undeniably a beautiful woman with wavy honey-colored hair and big hazel eyes that sparkle with intelligence. The way their hands touch on top of the table makes my heart ache with irrational longing.

As I enter, they immediately stop talking and give me identical warm, reassuring smiles, which makes me feel marginally better. Should I curtsy? They always do that in those BBC period movies… Wondering if it looks as ridiculous as it feels, I place my right foot behind my left, praying to keep my balance, bend my knees, and quickly straighten before I have a chance to trip on my skirt. Whew! Then I smile and say good morning.

"Isabella, sweet girl, do sit down! How are you this morning? Are you feeling any better? You quite worried me last night, dear child!" Maggie exclaims, the expression of unease back on her face. "Alistair was just voicing his concerns about my decision to take you to the opera. The subject matter was indeed most… unsuitable for a young woman who has endured trials like yourself. Can you ever forgive me?"

She speaks with such passion, and I hear a true feeling behind her words. She speaks like a mother.

My chest is suddenly tight, and I will myself to get a grip. After a short pause, I manage to say "I am feeling wonderful, thank you. My apologies for being late".

My mind goes blank on how to continue this conversation, so I awkwardly lower myself in the nearest chair and stare at my plate. Thankfully, a couple of servants enter the room with platters of bread, eggs, bacon, and something that looks like a very runny porridge in a large ceramic pot with a ladle. I'm served all these things and a cup of strong tea that smells divine. It feels like I'm having brunch at an expensive restaurant, and to my surprise, despite all the stress and worry, I realize that I'm very hungry.

Alistair is now absorbed in his newspaper, or rather in meticulously arranging it around his plate to maximize his reading and eating efficiency. He seems to be a man of few words, while Maggie does enough talking for all three of us.

"I have no particular engagements for the day, and your uncle will be occupied in the library," she informs me. Aha! So Alistair is my uncle. "Would you care to accompany me on a short walk, perhaps? The weather is delightful!"

I nod and thank her for the invitation, focusing on not leaving any drops of egg yolk on the pristine white tablecloth as I take the first spoonful of my egg.

The food is delicious. Every bite has more flavor than a full plate of food back at home. And the fact that it's served on china and with cutlery worthy of a museum doesn't hurt either. I quickly finish whatever they put on my plate and reach for another toast, enjoying the carb-induced tranquility slowly spreading in my body.

Overall, breakfast is a pleasant affair–as far as breakfasts with total strangers go. Maggie chatters endlessly about the weather, the winter fabrics she plans to order, and a new novel she's just started reading. Too bad I've never heard of either the writer or the title. I notice how she deliberately avoids any mention of the Opera. Not good. Something's telling me that the Opera, either the place or the performance itself, is directly connected to how I got here. I need to assure her that I did enjoy my night out, just as soon as I figured out a few basics.

My input in the conversation is mostly limited to monosyllables and nods, and it seems to be working just fine. Clearly, nobody expects me to be a talkative, vibrant 27-year-old–quite the opposite. In fact, every time I smile, I register mild surprise on the faces of my hosts, and even the servants. It appears Isabella Dwyer is a mope. Suits me! The less I talk, the lower the risk of exposing myself.

After breakfast, Alistair gives me a pat on the shoulder and retreats, presumably to the library. I'm about to scurry to my room, desperate to brush my teeth, but before I leave, I notice his newspaper on the table. It's The Times, and although the front page is completely covered by classifieds–how strange–I immediately find what I need. Right under the masthead featuring a lion and a unicorn, it says:

LONDON, TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 24, 1833.

I swallow a thick lump in my throat.

Somehow, seeing the proof of the impossible in print makes it all too real.

Slightly lightheaded, I find Jessica in the kitchen and ask about the bath. She tries to argue that baths are drawn in the evening and if I take it in the morning, I'm not supposed to go out, or I'll get sick, but I insist. Washing off all the grime, the smells, and the stress is imperative right now. I'll get sick if I don't take a bath. Finally, Jessica gives up and with a frown of disapproval on her face, takes another maid to the back of the kitchen. I return to my room and wait.

An hour later, the bath is ready. As I soak in the copper tub while Jessica washes my hair and gently massages my scalp, I admit to myself that I could do worse regarding lodgings in London in the year 1833, chamber pot notwithstanding. As I bathe, Jessica talks non-stop, and I listen and memorize. Unfortunately, most of her blabbering seems useless.

I spend the rest of the morning and the early afternoon surreptitiously inspecting the house. It's quite big, with a few larger areas on the ground floor and several bedrooms on the first. I don't dare to venture onto the second floor and the attic where the servants must be living. Eventually, I manage to get a sneak peek of the library. It's almost dark and smells strongly of leather and wood, but since Alistair's there doing God knows what, there's no way for me to get inside and take a look at the books.

There are several living rooms to the right of the library, although they're probably called something else, like a drawing room, or a morning room. I wish I knew the difference. Each room has a color theme, and I'm surprised that there are so many dark colors, like red, navy, and terracotta. You might think that with the near-constant London overcast and lack of electric light (the fact of which they're blissfully unaware), homeowners would stick to white and pastel, but maybe those are now considered impractical.

The dark colors, however, work well with the furniture, which is mostly made of lacquered mahogany with gentle gilded accents. You can't deny that Maggie, or whoever decorated it, has taste. It's a beautiful house. Or a museum, depending on how you look at it. I try to make myself comfortable in a pretty armchair upholstered with some silky green material, but after a few minutes, my back hurts. I miss my sagging couch.

What really blows my mind, though, is the number of maids and male servants constantly cleaning, mopping, dusting, and doing other housework, like polishing the silver, adjusting the curtains, and rearranging the wood in the fireplaces. If this were my house, I'd go nuts from the constant movement.

Unfortunately, despite the clear skies in the morning, the weather changes for the worse, and our "outing" is postponed. Maggie (how am I supposed to address her? Aunt Maggie? Lady Buchan?) is currently in the "main" living room, reading her book with a serene expression on her face. She looks up every now and then, her eyes searching for me. I smile whenever I meet her gaze. I wish I could also sit down and do something.

Did Isabella Dwyer like to read, too?

I couldn't find any books in her room, so I just wander around the house and probably look bored.

Suddenly, Maggie calls me to sit with her.

"Isabella, you are restless today, my dear." She takes a deep breath and reaches for my hand. "It grieves me to raise this matter, but may I ask when you might wish to visit the cemetery?" Her voice is gentle, like a caress.

It takes me a second to understand the meaning of her words.

"The cemetery?" I repeat.

She looks at me with sorrow in her eyes. "Darling, we need to visit James. It has been a long time."

I gulp air and stare at her. What? Who's James?! Did my unfaithful fiancé become my husband in this reality, and then die? Please, please don't let it be my child!

Maggie misinterprets the array of emotions on my face and quickly adds, "But of course, whenever you feel ready, my dear."

I shake my head and frantically squeeze her hand. I need to know. "No, no, you are right, it is time to go. Can we go now?"

Maggie's taken aback, and for a moment, she just stares at me incredulously, but then her face lights up and she gives me a tight hug.

"My sweet child, it is growing late," she half-whispers. "What do you think about setting out first thing tomorrow? I shall arrange for flowers. I am immensely proud of you."

I nod and hug her back. Tomorrow.

The day passes slowly, and by dinner time, I'm ready for it to be over. All day, I've been snooping around, talking to Maggie and to Jessica, all while trying to be inconspicuous and maintain Isabella Dwyer's brooding persona (that part wasn't difficult at all) but at the same time, getting something from them. The result is… well, not nothing, but it's not enough.

At least, I've confirmed that Sir Alistair and Lady Buchan are indeed my uncle and aunt. Turns out, Alistair is a baronet, hence the "Sir". They don't have any children of their own, so there won't be any more Buchan baronets any time soon. Maggie is my mother's sister. I'm not 100% sure, but it looks like my parents are no longer alive.

In addition to the London house, the Buchans also have a large estate in Derbyshire, where the three of us spent last summer. Apparently, I'm stuck with them for an indefinite period of time, all because of whoever is buried in that cemetery. The Buchans love traveling and going out in general. They support all kinds of charities and never miss a concert or a good play, but in the last year or so, they've had to tone it down a lot because I was in mourning.

Oh, and supposedly, I have a friend, whose name is Angela Weber and who's been very supportive. She's the daughter of Maggie's friend and is married to a minister. They have a bunch of kids. I visit her a lot.

Yet… all this exciting intel doesn't get me an inch closer to home.