Part 2

So instead of continuing into the parlor, I duck back into the hallway, and am arrested for a long moment by a look down it into the entryway.  The rain-soaked light from outside is too weak to catch properly in the chandelier, and its candles (or gas jets maybe? I can't tell from here) aren't lit.  Yet the warm soft yellow of the walls reflects and strengthens what light spills in from a window above the door, and it's still a welcoming space.  But I've seen this foyer before - it's the doorways on the opposite side that draw me now.  There are several, but I start with the one directly across from me, which opens into a hallway ending in a set of stairs.
          A room on the right is against the front wall of the house, and looks to be another sitting room - lighter and airier than the one in the tower, with a large window letting in a good deal of light even on such a gray day.  And there are plants everywhere, hanging around the window and set on nearly every surface of the room, lush and verdant.  Most are in bloom, giving the space a lovely perfume, permeating each breath I take but without any of the overwhelming sickly-sweetness that the candles and sprays and things of my own day so often cause.  I step over toward the window, and take a long breath beside delicate white stars of a blossoming jasmine vine.  (Ha! I knew what it was! I'm learning! ...not a lot, and not nearly enough, as most of the room is a total mystery to me, but at least that's one.  What it means, though, I'll have to check once I'm back home.)
          As I step back, my eye is caught by the richly-decorated bell of a phonograph--- uh, or not?  There's no record at its base, or the right kind of spindle and needle for one.  Instead there's a brown cylinder that's finely grooved a bit like a record, but it doesn't quite look like vinyl.  Something jogs in my memory, and I bite back a laugh as I realize where I've seen one of these before.  It is a music player, there was one in An American Tale, which I must've watched a thousand times as a kid, I suddenly remember Fievel Mouse sliding down inside a bell and scampering in place on the rotating cylinder.  History via cartoons, I am a product of my own era!
          There's a cardboard tube next to the machine, and I reach a hand toward it, to see if there's a label telling what the music is. (No way am I going to try turning this thing on, God knows what awful havoc I'd wreck on it!)  "Edison Records" is in large old-fashioned typography, but I don't see---
          "Jacob!  Where is that trunk of new linens?"
          "In the back room!"
          "It most certainly is not, go and bring it at once, you cussed scapegrace!"
          "I will, but--"
          "Now! Didn't you see the carriage coming up the drive?"
          "Shit! I'm---"
          "You watch that tongue o'yourn!"
          Carriage. That must be Meres and Celestine returning.  My stomach drops through the floor.  I'll meet them!  I should get back to the parlor, Jacob will be sending them there I'm sure.  Why on earth am I so nervous?  Oh my God my clothes are still damp, and I can't imagine how terrifying my hair looks, and I'm a woman in pants.  I'm a walking scandal.
          Back in the hall, I take a lingering look down it, but I can't make out what's beyond any of the doorways from this angle, and half of the doors are shut anyway.  I'd imagine the bedrooms would be on the upper floors - but, no kids, how many rooms would there be anyway?  A guest room or two in addition to the guest room anyway, but---
          I know I should save the speculation for when I'm not here and able to find new things.  But I'm really nervous.  I'm back in the main parlor now, and sure enough, a fire's been freshly lit in the hearth.  I didn't realize how chilled I felt after my dip in the rainstorm, but the heat feels amazing right now.  Smells lovely too - some cedar in there maybe?  But something else too, that's not quite wood, more of a spice.  I sit in a plush chair near the fire, leaning forward a little to dry my still damp clothes better.
          A growing rumble and clatter outside - there's a window that faces the front of the house, but they must be coming up around the house from the other side, I don't see anything, just hear what I assume is the sound of a horse (or several?) and a carriage coming up the gravel drive.  Where did Jacob say they'd been, out for a picnic?  If they got caught in the rain, I'm sure they'll want to change before meeting any company in the parlor.  More time for me to get more nervous, great.  I guess I've just built them up to such heights in my mind that they seem far, far above my station - which, alright, yes, they totally are anyway, I'm broke and single and grew up middle-class.  And my century has a pretty shaky grasp on proper manners.
          To distract myself, I look away from the fire and around the room.  Mirror!  There's a small mirror on a little curio shelf along the opposite wall.  I cross over to it, and scowl at my reflection, finger-combing and smoothing my hair into vague submission.  It's drier than the drowned-rat look, but now it's hit the frizzy stretch of damp-but-drying.  So attractive.  Guess I'm posing as a peasant for sure, but what---
          His eyes.
          They froze me across a pretty good distance by the fountain.  I'm barely going to manage speech if I'm in the same small room.  There's no way I'll be able to keep a straight face and lie about who I am and where I'm from, I'm a terrible liar even under normal circumstances.  Honest evasiveness is just going to have to satisfy him.
          Beside the mirror is a minature vase, only a few inches high, and even this is filled with flowers - small ones, in proportion to their container.  The details of this place... it's almost unreal.  I wonder how large of a staff they have, keeping it maintained?  I've seen three already - plus presumably someone in charge of the horses - for just the two of them living there.  My eyes trail happily over the curio shelves I'm in front of: a rearing bronze horse in incredible detail, a marble bust of someone I don't recognize, a small box with thousand of bits of wood inlaid in geometric patterns, a small potted fern with cascading fronds.  A delicate piece of (obviously handmade) lace runs beneath everything, protecting the warmly colored wood of the shelf.
          The next shelf down has a few books on it - in English this time! Well, no, I take that back, not all in English, one's in French and another's in German.  But the other three are in English: The Woman in White, Erewhon, and, oh, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland! I knew it was an old story, but I hadn't realized it was this old.  I slip the volume gently off the shelf - and am taken aback by how soft and new the leather binding feels, how bright of a gold the gilt that outlines the title and illustrations on it.  A few smaller illustrations on the spine, Alice on the front and Cheshire Cat on the back - I recognize the charcter designs, my own copy back home has the original illustrations in it, though it's a much less elegant edition than this!  Bound in a gorgeous deep red leather, it feels amazing to hold in my hands.  I carefully turn the first few pages, looking for the title page with a date.  There it is, opposite an image of the King an Queen in the courtroom, done in that strikingly modern linework.  John Tenniel, that's right, that's his name.  "New York.  D. Appleton and Co., 445, Broadway.  1866."
          1866.  So it's at least that year now.  A few decades before Evelyn's family.  Well, rather, it could be anywhere between 1866 and the start of the 1890s - though I'm leaning toward the earlier part, this leather feels really, really new.
          Why on earth didn't I just ask chatty little Jacob what year it is?  I'm an idiot.
          I'd totally zoned out.  Where's the carriage?  I don't hear anything.  Damnit damnit damnit have they already come inside?  No - I hear voices outside, and then the front door swing open, muffled voices, both male and female, though I can't make them out.  My heart pounds.
          "Oh good, you're still here!"
          I jump half a freaking mile.  "Jacob! Gah. You scared me."
          He giggles.  "My apologies, Miss.  Master and Missus have just returned, and they ask you to please allow them a few minutes to refresh from their long drive.  But they'll join you shortly - or, rather, Missus will, I think Matthew had some letters for Master that he might need to attend."
          I let out a slow breath, my heart calming a little.  The Mason brothers are just downright intimidating, that's all there is to it.  Those eyes...  But Celestine, I'm sure, will be a soft and gentle and lovely person.  "That's just fine.  Only..." I sigh, biting my lip.  "Only I'm not sure how long I can stay, Jacob, I'd like so much to meet your Missus."
          "She's the kindest lady I've ever seen," he avows with a proud note in his voice.
          I grin.  "Which is why I'd love to meet her.  But while I'm waiting, can you stay?  I'd like to talk with you a little, if you're not needed somewhere else."
          "Oh, I'm always needed somewhere, but that doesn't mean I always have to be there."
          At this, I laugh, and he does too.  I slip the book back onto the shelf, making sure it's lined up nicely beside the others - but it gets caught on something, and I spot a loose sheet of paper resting against the next book, which must have been stuck between the two.  I pull it out, set Alice back in its place, and am just pushing the two books apart to slip the paper back into place---
          When the world starts to blur.
          I blink angrily and curse.
          "Miss?  Miss, are you alright?  You look---"
          "Jacob?  Is everything all right?"  A new voice.  It paints those few short words in the sweetest melodies.  It has to be Celestine.  She's near enough that I can hear the rustle of her skirts as she moves through the next room toward us.
          But it's too late.
          And I'm back in the ruins of the mansion, tangles of weeds and low mounds of burned bricks all that remains of that warm parlor and its thousand little touches of beauty.
          No.  Wait.  Not all that remains:
          The loose sheet of paper is still in my hand.

          It takes all my willpower to not drop it in shock, or crumple it in fear of losing it.  I take a slow breath, and sit down on the nearest pile of bricks.  It could be anything, probably nothing, could--- well, no, it's certainly not blank, anyway.