People did that in beds, yes? They did it in beds when it was dark out. It was dark out. So surely she just needed to move to a bed…
She opened her eyes, and blinked. And then blinked again.
There was a nasty sense of unfamiliarity in everything she saw.
She was in an empty attic with a mirror at her back. She knew that because of the vaulted, angled ceiling beams, and faint moonlight streaming in from small upper windows. The wood was sturdy, if unmaintained, and the air, was cool and dusty, and faintly scented with lavender sachets and rose.
She wrinkled her nose. Rose. It was cloying, and insistent, and…and why didn’t she like it again? Didn’t everyone like roses? Rose… that’s my name, isn’t it? I should…
Her head was buzzing, images and memories flashing, but there were too few, and the bits of information she had were jumbled and limited. It didn’t take a clear head for her to know that that was Not Good.
She glanced around the empty room for clues, finding very few. The walls of the attic were entirely bare, with not a piece of furniture or clutter in sight.
There should be crates there, she thought fuzzily. And a suit of armor. And… and hissing.
But why?
She moved her fingers experimentally, and discovered a sword, still gripped tightly in both hands.
Panicked, she searched herself quickly, staring back at the large, ornate mirror that took up most of the attic’s back wall. She had a fleeting glimpse of herself, sweaty, in a torn blue dress, hair disheveled and sword in hand, but that image quickly melted away, replaced by one of her in black robes that hung to the floor. Like a great, billowing long-coat, her outermost garment was embroidered with gold at the hems. Her hair was done in a tight, if masculine, up-do, and her head was partially covered by a hood.
She reached up with the hand not holding the sword. She was indeed wearing a robe, if they could be called that. The same cloak as in her reflection rested on her shoulders. Underneath, she wore a crisp vest, belt, and straight trousers. On her face, a large purple bruise bloomed, rendering her nearly unrecognizable, and the scar—but she didn’t see a scar. Why not? Shouldn’t there have been one there?
Moving on from her damaged face, she ran her hands down the fabric on her arms and chest, searching, trying to remember putting them on, when her fingers brushed a thick card in the breast pocket.
The heavy stationary had been sealed with a wax marker as thick as her finger, a gargoyle’s head staring out at her from the wax. The seal, though hardened, was still warm in the center, as though the letter had only just been penned and placed. Confused, head still pounding, she broke it, and read:
My Dearest Miss Rosalie Clara Cible,
Would that I could give you this note in person. Alas, I hope to instill in you a healthy skepticism of strangers in this world. Therefore, all in good time.
When your memories are returned to you, you will return to your world. I would advise you to practice caution in hunting them, however. Should the seals come undone too quickly, we may all come undone with them.
Didymus and Gearson will accompany you. You may rely on them as needed.
Do try your best not to give out your true name when possible.
Luck and wishes,
- Dross
P.S. I would be very careful about whom you tell that you are a young woman, until you have your bearings. Not that it is not a most delightful part of your character, but the consequences of discovery at this point in the plan would be…distasteful.
Her name was Rosalie Cible. That name tasted right. As for the other names…
“Sir Didymus! Mr. Gearson!” she exclaimed, almost on instinct, as two semi-corporeal forms stepped through the mirror.
Fragments of memory came with the two figures. The day they’d met. Their lessons. Their walks. Her wish…. But nothing else.
“Are you alright, Miss Rose?” Sir Didymus asked gently, surveying both her and the room. “Bump to the head?”
Rose? She liked that better than Rosalie, somehow, but she still hated the scent of the rose powder on the stationary.
“Bump to the head?” Gearson spluttered, furious. “Bump to the head? She’ll have magical backlash! She’ll have magically limited memory loss! She’ll have a concussion!” Gearson, practical as ever, knelt to examine her face. “Well, at least the concussion is minor. Tell me, girl. Headache?”
She nodded.
“Right. Memories addled?”
She nodded again. “I know you. I remember you. But I don’t remember… my family. I have them. I know them. But I can’t see their faces. I don’t remember why I’m here, if I ever knew. I don’t—I don’t remember my family,” she repeated. Her voice broke. “How could I forget something like that?”
“You’ll have retained only memories with magical influence. So, the Master. And us. Sorry,” Gearson said bluntly.
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She shook her head. “But I remember the accident. My injuries. Why would I remember those?”
Didymus and Gearson shared a look.
“Don’t blame me!” Didymus huffed.
“Oh, I blame you.”
“Guys!” she interjected before they could start squabbling again. “What about the memories? Will they come back?”
“I don’t know,” Gearson said, honestly—insufficiently. “Furthermore, I cannot tell why the campus feels so strange.”
“Campus?” Rose questioned.
“Yes, dear,” Didymus said quickly. “You are on the campus of the Drakespire Academy of Magic. An academy at which the mirror of Silver Manor recognizes you as having enrolled.”
“The mirror thinks—” But Rose was cut off by Gearson, who was growing more perturbed.
“Something is quite wrong. Have they instituted a new policy? The instructions said nothing about this.”
“About what?” Despite her longing for sleep, Rose was becoming agitated.
Gearson sighed. “I can sense nearly every magical signature for miles, Miss Cible. And there are no young ladies your age anywhere on this campus. If the academy has transitioned to an all-men’s institution, then clearly the master neglected to inform me!”
Didymus didn’t seem to find much problem with that, and shrugged. “It was both genders just a few centuries ago. Perhaps we’ve come at the wrong time?”
“I don’t get the impression we’re off by a few CENTURIES. The master never got timing wrong. This must be the right time. But no supplies. No forewarning! If she is kicked out—”
Didymus interjected with a passion. “She can't be kicked out. This is where she belongs! And if not, then where would she go, the streets? The taverns? The docks?”
“There aren’t any taverns in this era, you dolt.”
Rose didn’t understand exactly what was going on, but in her memories was the fundamental understanding of ‘how doors work,’ which spawned an idea.
“Mr. Gearson. Sir Didymus. If we came through the mirror, then why can’t we just go back?”
“If only,” Gearson groaned. “Miss Rose, if your memories have been lost on this side of the mirror than you are no longer whole. You cannot return without them. At all. We have to find a way to restore them. Surely the master would have provided for this, and may god help us if they’ve gotten stuck behind the seals on the way!” Gearson glared at Didymus. “Is this what you wanted? Is this the great adventure you envisioned? I told you, we need more time. We need the proper paperwork!”
Didymus threw his hands in the air, and shoved his fists into his ruffle suit vest indignantly.
“Well, I didn’t mean to take her now. I thought that we could get her more information. Rearrange somewhat! Prepare! Pack! THIS! This is a disaster! We don’t have bags! We don’t have supplies! No cosmetics! Dresses! A shocking lack of hosiery—”
“WE DON'T HAVE HER LETTER, you nincompoop!” Gearson roared.
A shudder rumbled through the rafters, rattling the window.
“Oh dear…” Didymus glanced about the room. “Not alone, then.”
An eerie, ghostly wailing took the place of the rattling moments before the seeping noise turned into words.
“INTRUDERS! INTRUDERS IN THE ATTIC!”
Together, five ghostly heads, followed by five ghostly bodies, all wearing the same hostile expression rose through the floor, and into the room. There was no pause. They just attacked.
A furious victorian woman in kirtle, apron, and nightcap wielded a wooden ladle, and aimed it with lethal accuracy at Sir Didymus’ head. A sandy-haired stablehand with a pitchfork lunged at his middle. A pair of maids made for Gearson, biceps flexed and swinging like street brawlers. A footman with hollow eyes and dressed in moth-eaten livery descended on Rose, brandishing a horsewhip like a garrot.
“There’s a live one!” the stablehand bellowed. “ALIVE and daring to step foot in our home!”
A silvery rapier appeared in Didymus’ left hand, casting slivers of light over the room and across the mirror as he dispatched the cook with ease, followed shortly by the stablehand, and one of the maids.
Gearson towered over the footman, shimmering in the dim room with a dark energy that almost made the footman retreat—almost. Unlike the others, Gearson was solid, looming with a menacing strength. His fists clenched, and he leaped forward, his powers of decay casting a chill that seemed to freeze the very air.
Rose flinched as Gearson’s hand closed around the footman’s whip, and then his throat. The ghost of the footman shuddered as his ghostly windpipe crunched under the force, and then his body simply disintegrated. His remains crumbled, sinking back through the floor.
“You killed them?” Rose gasped.
“Oh, don’t be so dramatic, dear! They’ve been dead for ages.” Didymus said, offering her a hand to get to her feet. She accepted it, though Didymus wasn’t much actual support.
Gearson dispatched the second maid before she could even touch him. Sending her wailing and crumbling away, missing limbs as she did. Rose shuddered.
“Ah, you might want to move,” Didymus warned, as seven more heads rose back through the floor. Some were familiar faces, and the maid, cook, and gardener that Didymus had just dealt with had gone from excited annoyance to open, murderous hostility.
“Move? Move where?” She exclaimed as Didymus lunged in front of her again.
“I am a fair hand at a blade, but there are a lot of them, and believe it or not, they won’t die again for long.”
“Get out of the structure,” Gearson barked, his hands already full, now with a valet, a far less well-dressed butler than Didymus, and the same pair of angry maids. “Leave the house however you can. There’s usually a boundary to where unbound ghosts can travel, and do not let yourself be discovered. Not until we can sort this out!”
There were too many, however, to just sneak past. Five ghosts had turned into twenty, all members of some ghostly staff that had likely once belonged to this odd manor.
“You dare attack us in our own home?” one hissed.
“Intruders!”
“Sneak-thieves!”
“Bandits!”
They all had insults and curses aplenty for Gearson, who outclassed any of them here, but twenty on two wasn’t fair odds in any fight, and the hostile ghosts were closing in on Rose.
“Oh, I think that’s enough of that!” she hissed, and raised her own sword. If she couldn’t sneak out, then she could fight her way out.
Letter in one hand, and sword in the other, she stepped into the fight, just in time for a second blinding light to sweep the room.
“Ah!” she groaned, raising the letter to shield her bad eye. Then, she charged, sword swinging at the only attacker she could see.
It didn’t occur to her that he was now the only figure in the room until the puff of fire he shot caught her squarely in the face.
“Ah…” the stranger huffed, dusting a speck of non-existent lint from his black overcoat. “Is this what passes for a prank these days? If I had been a moment later. If I did not know how to sidestep that frankly appalling sense of balance with a weapon…well, you would be facing much more than just a detention for this little incident, shall we say.”