by Amy Marie
“How did you find me?” I’m so thankful, but also curious as to how he was able stumble upon the hideaway.
“Eleanor, my dear, please do sit down.” He gestures over to one of the couches.
“Sit down? Uncle Mike we have to get out of here!” I tell him, pointing to the kitchen door he just came through.
He holds up his arms as if to stop me. “Eleanor, you must stay protected. There is much we have to tell you.”
We?
I don’t understand what’s going on. Just as I’m about to ask, Darcy walks through the same door Uncle Mike just entered a moment ago.
My heart sinks into the pits of my stomach.
“You know each other?” I ask, backing away from them both.
Uncle Mike is the one to answer, “I have known Darcy for most of my adult life.”
I glance Darcy’s way, and he nods his head in agreement.
“What’s going on here?” I ask them.
But before either of them is given a chance to respond, I turn to Uncle Mike in accusation. “And you knew I was being held here? You couldn’t come and tell me why, or help me understand what’s happening?” The betrayal is evident in my voice.
“Eleanor, my dear, you were hurt, and you needed a few days to digest the information that Darcy was telling you. While you were here, I was excusing your absence at school and work, as well as with your family. Also, I have been making arrangements to provide protection to young Charity here, and our family back in Ohio, just in case.”
“In case of what?” I ask.
“Talbot,” he answers. “He is a danger to anyone that can be connected with you, now that he has found you.”
I’ve been betrayed here, by both of them. Even though I know they’ve been working hard to protect me. Part of me wants to put them in their place for putting me through all of this. I examine them both in an attempt to gauge the situation.
“And what about the Statera?” I ask to neither one of them in particular.
The question got the response I was hoping for.
The stunned look on both of their faces confirms the authenticity of my dream.
“I told you it was her,” Darcy says to Uncle Mike. “She remembers.”
“Slowly, she does not remember everything. You know how it happens,” Uncle Mike says back to him, regarding me as if I’m a wild animal that’s ready to bolt.
Being the only one left in the dark, I look between the two of them and in a powerful voice I’ve never heard myself use before, I demand, “I have no patience left for this. One or both of you, please explain what’s going on here!”
To my everlasting frustration, Darcy looks to the ground to hide another small half-smile. He turns to enter the supply room, and I can just see him reach to unlock the secret compartment’s lockbox in the secretary desk that I had been so curious about. He retrieves an object that he brings back out and places in my hands.
My hand turns over what appears to be an aged golden compact.
The oval shaped object fits in my palm and the top of the casing is intricately designed with four-point scrolling that looks identical to the diamond shape design on the cover of the book in my dream. Except this shape is overlaying a single bloom rose. The rose is intertwined through the elaborate scrolling almost as if it’s being held prisoner. The design is utterly beautiful in its detail stamped into the gold, which has dulled over time.
“What is this?” I ask, studying details of the design. I’m not sure how this explains the situation.
There’s a small clasp on the side where the object can be opened and unfolded.
As I reach for the clasp, Darcy begins his explanation. “Inside that case is a miniature portrait of the girl that Gabriel considered to be like a sister, and the woman I grew to love. Her uncle, who was the Governor of Boston at the time, commissioned the portrait for her when she was introduced into society. His name was Thomas Hutchinson. The miniature was then set in the casing and passed on to me as a token, and I have kept it safe ever since.”
Not registering the implications of his words, or the connection of the last name, I finally fumble open the casing of the miniature.
My hands shake as I stare at a lifelike painting of a young girl with bright green eyes. She sits with her head tilted to the side to showcase her golden blond hair in a regal woven style that spills from the top of her head down her back.
But my heart stops at her shining smile.
My smile.
The painting of this woman, this neighbor girl… every detail of her appearance matches identically to a version of what I see in the mirror every day.
“Her name was Eleanor. Eleanor Hutchinson.”
This can’t be real.
The miniature drops from my shaking hands as I look up at Darcy, shaking my head no.
I know what he’s thinking. But it’s not possible.
“Part of you has known all along. This is the reason for your memories and your dreams. This is how you know Talbot.” His voice almost goes to a whisper, “This is how you know me.”
I sit down, unable to catch my breath. I come to the conclusion that I’m hyperventilating for the first time in my life.
“Darcy,” Uncle Mike says, “may I speak to Eleanor alone for a while?”
Darcy turns to the older man and begins to put up a fight in impatience and anger.
Uncle Mike interrupts him saying, “You have had hundreds of years to digest the reality of this situation. We’ve just dropped a huge bomb on her, and there is much more work ahead for all of us. Give her time.”
Darcy stomps out of the room. He exits out the door to the storage room. Even in my panic, my mind vaguely registers that there must be more than one exit.
“I’m sorry, my dear,” Uncle Mike says to me, “his temper has been in full swing lately at his impatience to push you to see the truth of everything.”
I’m taking deep breaths in and out in an effort to calm my breathing and wait for the shock to subside, but I am surprised to hear this.
“He has… been very… calm and patient… to me,” I say between breaths.
He smiles, “Ah, he may have appeared that way in your presence. After what you just found out, you may understand why. But be assured, out of your presence, he has been in a beastly rage. A dreadfully dark temper, that one.” He nods in the direction in which Darcy left. “Do you remember when I first saw you, dear?” he asks after a moment.
“Yes,” I say, still breathing slowly in and out. I’m starting to calm down.
“Do you remember my reaction when I saw your smile? And then upon hearing your full name?” he asks.
Thinking back, I remember something strange about his reaction to me, but had forgotten about it until now. I nod in reply.
He walks over and bends down to pick up the miniature off of the floor, gently handling it as he sits down next to me. “You can imagine my surprise to see the smile that I have seen so often in my research materialize in front of me in the lovely person who came to thank me for a simple recommendation. I knew you had the coincidence of the last name, but I had always heard Selma refer to you as Nora. Never having the opportunity to meet you, I simply neglected to connect your real name, or the possibilities.”
I point at the portrait in his hands. “You cannot think I’m this girl,” I say to him after my breathing has somewhat returned to normal.
“Oh no, my dear. You are Eleanor Hutchinson, born eighteen years ago on a May morning in Columbus, Ohio. I’ve done my research. I know you are your own person. But there is something deep within you that you do share with this young woman.” He holds up the miniature.
“I don’t understand,” I say.
“My dear, I knew from the moment I met you, aside from the resemblance, that there is something different about you. Right away, I knew your potential.”
Confused, I ask, “Like what?”
“I know that you most likely don’t connect completely with othe
r people your age. I know that you have always felt out of place. I know you have had a touch of reminiscence throughout your whole life, and you have blamed it on déjà vu,” he says, grabbing my hand.
I’m floored at how he could know these details of my personality that I have guarded so closely, some things that I haven’t even expressed to the people closest to me.
“Have you ever heard Plato’s theory on reminiscence?” he inquires with a twinkle in his eye.
I shake my head negatively.
“The Platonic reminiscence theory implies that we may all have a spirit inside of us that has lived previously among different forms.”
“You mean like re-incarnation?” I ask.
“Not precisely,” he tries to explain. “Not every spirit is from a past life, and not every spirit returns to this form after passing.”
I stare at him blankly in confusion.
“The theory points to other forms of existence that we go to and come from, but also, in certain cases, includes the possibility of recycling through this existence. It’s specifically the knowledge, memories, and beliefs that can be passed along through these existences in the form of reminiscence.”
“You think this is happening to me?” I ask.
“I think it’s possible. Only you can know for sure. We can all help you explore the possibilities. But tell me dear, how did you come to know about the name of the Statera?”
“I dreamed it,” I say simply. “But it wasn’t a normal dream, it was a mix between a dream, a memory, and an out of body experience. Most of my dreams lately have been that way. Some I can control, some I can’t. Some I realize are dreams, and some are so realistic that I’m surprised to wake up. Some are nightmares, and some…” I get a vision of a rendezvous in a rose garden and quickly try to cover my embarrassment, “…and some aren’t.”
“If you don’t mind, can you run through some of these dreams with me?” he asks.
I describe the nightmares of being choked by the cloaked figure, drowned in the river, and buried alive, explaining that I could never see my assassin. It was always just a cloaked figure. I then relay the dream that introduced Gabriel and Darcy’s connection, being careful to edit the embarrassing details. Finally, I explain the events of my most recent dream that included the Statera.
“That’s remarkable. It would seem the assassination nightmares are projections of fear. You were being pursued by an unknown assailant that you could never see. I believe your subconscious was trying to warn you about Talbot before you even knew he was near.”
My eyes widen.
How could I do that?
“Now the other two dreams seem to be different, both stemming from possible memories. Memories that may have existed in this woman’s life.” He again refers to the miniature.
“How can I know for sure?” I ask, already dreading the answer.
“The only way to know for sure, my dear, is to discuss these events with someone else who lived through them.”
I was afraid of that.
My face is giving me away again, because Uncle Mike interrupts my thoughts to say, “Darcy can help you more than you know. Don’t be afraid to trust him, even though you may not understand the things that have happened to him.”
“Is the curse real, Uncle Mike?” I ask, still in awe of the possibility.
“Let me put it this way. I met Darcy when I was in my early twenties, and he looks exactly the same today as the first day I met him,” he says, shaking his head in his own apparent disbelief. “It’s an amazingly terrible curse.”
I ponder that last statement for a moment.
How many men have dreamed of immortality? But I’m sure none of them think about the gory details. The loneliness of the existence and having to watch everyone around you pass on. Even considering all of its advantages, it truly would be a curse.
“This is all so unbelievable. But let’s say I have memories wakening from a life that belonged to this girl,” I point to the miniature, “how does this all connect with Darcy, his curse, the Statera, and Talbot?”
“Eleanor, this is exactly why I asked for your help with this project. I knew you had potential to be involved, and I was right. Your memories can give us insight along with Darcy’s knowledge to help decode the secret text… as soon as we find it.”
If it weren’t for the existence of my eyelids, my eyes most definitely would pop right out of my head.
Find it?
Chapter 15
“You mean Darcy doesn’t have the book?” I blink a couple of times in shock.
“He did.” Uncle Mike looks at me over the top his glasses, the same way he did the first day he met me. “But he trusted it to the care of the woman he loved, and then she disappeared.”
“You don’t think she…” I trail off, unable to think that any part of betrayal could live in her and be passed to me.
“No, of course not. Not at all, my dear. But this Eleanor,” he refers to the portrait, “was set to guard the book while Darcy left to work on arrangements with the local seminary for various research and construction of a more permanent sanctuary. While she was left by herself, she received word from a messenger that her father was taken hostage by Marcus Talbot. She was told that if she did not come immediately, he would be killed.”
I can almost feel her internal struggle. What a horrible predicament.
“Naturally, she couldn’t leave her father to die. I assume she didn’t think she had time to get to Darcy for help. So, I believe she hid the text and went to help her father. Unfortunately, Darcy never saw her again. And the fate of the text has been unknown ever since.”
“Until now. You think I will remember what happened to her, and from there, be able to locate the text?” I ask, the pressure of my current situation finding a way to impossibly build.
“It’s what I’m hoping. It’s what we’re all hoping. Darcy has spent his years trying to re-create the knowledge he had of the text, but there’s much left to be desired.”
“What can I do?” I ask.
I’m helpless knowing I haven’t been able to force any memories. They’ve all come to me naturally and without warning.
Somehow sensing my thoughts, Uncle Mike says, “I know you need time for these things to come to you, but the more you are surrounded by triggers of the reminiscence, the more easily it will come. It can’t be forced, but try to think back to people and places that give you that feeling.”
Darcy and the river immediately come to mind.
“Also, it will help to spend some more time with Darcy. Be open with him about the feelings, dreams, and memories. He can help you sort out the things in your head that may have come from this young woman.”
I stop Uncle Mike. “It’s not that easy. I’m just not that open of a person.”
“Just try. He is more like you than you think,” he encourages.
“What about school? My job? And my family?” A million worries go through my head at the idea of choosing to stay here longer.
“I’ve excused you from school and work to help me on a personal project through the week. You were in your accident Friday, and it’s now Monday night. You have a bit of time to work with. Your family thinks that I have sent you on an important research trip out of the country, and have no phone service. I’ve sent them brief emails with false updates from a dummy Harvard email address I assigned to you.” He appears sheepish as he adds, “I apologize for the deceit, but the turn of events Friday caused us to have to improvise quite a bit over the last few days.”
“Can I at least have my phone and write to them myself from this email?” I ask.
“Of course, dear. We only meant to give you time to see what is happening. It was never our desire to make you feel like you were being held prisoner. Protection was the only goal. If you would have left here Saturday morning after your accident, I know Talbot would have come for you.”
“What about Char? Are you sure my family is safe?” I ask him.
/> “I’ve sent someone to watch over Selma and Eddie in Ohio. And I’ve ensured that Charity has been protected in my care. I’ve arranged for her to stay as my houseguest under the pretense of an emergency in your apartment building. There was quite a mess there after all, we couldn’t have her returning to see that. The elements safeguard was set up in my home long ago. She’s safe with me.”
“What about when she goes to school, or work, or out of the house?” I wonder.
“She is safe to go out. Talbot is unable to go out in the daylight, the same as Darcy. Their shared bond of the curse has the same effects on each other.”
I deflate in hopelessness, forgetting about the curse and his immortality. I’m just unable to see how we can escape the evil man.
“I know what you’re thinking. Like Darcy, he can’t be killed. I’m hoping the Statera can give us information on how to defeat the evil, and therefore be able to fight Talbot. But even then, we have to figure out how to break his curse of immortality first.”
“This is an impossible task,” I say without realizing I’ve spoken out loud.
Uncle Mike’s voice grows soft, “Nothing is impossible, my dear. If we all work together, we will find a way.”
Behind me, near the second bedroom, someone clears their throat to announce their presence. Turning, I see Darcy standing in the doorway.
“May I join you two?” he asks.
My mind registers a third exit. I internally chastise myself for missing them all as I nod in invitation for him to come sit and join us.
“Eleanor I–” Darcy begins, taking a seat across from us.
“It’s Nora,” I interrupt him to ensure he distinguishes the difference between myself, and the girl in the portrait. The snap causes me to receive a look of disapproval from Uncle Mike.
Darcy glares at me for a moment in checked anger.
He begins again in a clipped tone. “Ms. Hutchinson, I hope you would be willing to stay here through the week, under protection, to help us solve some of the mysteries of our situation?”
With a glance over to Uncle Mike to see his encouraging nod, I turn back and simply say, “Yes. I’ll stay.”
