Exploring
It was evening in The Garden.
It was evening in The Garden and the sound of...children? No, birdsong.
Karen woke up with a start, the sound of a robin cheerily greeting the day somewhere outside the room. Her head felt stuffed full of cotton, dry and woolly, and she rubbed her hand blearily over her face as though she could clear away that feeling.
I was in...a garden I think.
But in the way of so many dreams, the more Karen focused on it the further it retreated, until she was left with a vague feeling of unease but nothing to pin the feeling on.
Ahh, well.
Giving up the attempt at jogging her memory, she scanned the room again - noting all the same things she had before, and then...ah-ha! One of the chairs now had a neatly folded pile of clothes, and her father's pistol sitting atop them.
In a rush, almost, she crawled out of bed and dressed in her own clothes - though they smelled of lavender, and all traces of her grand foray into the woods had been erased by careful, precise needlework. The pistol appeared the same, though she had no way of knowing if changes had been made to it as well.
Hmm.
With that thought, that her only weapon (and probably not a particularly viable one at that) may have been compromised, Karen sat down heavily in the chair she’d just cleared.
Would I have used it? Could I now?
The light of morning did little to make more sense of yesterday’s events - had she really read The Beast a bedtime story? The Beast?
His name is Frank, he said, and he swore not to hurt me and I could feel the weight of magic wrap itself around those words. It must be that he and The Beast are the same, or else that The Beast can...take someone’s voice and use it? Is that possible?
Research was needed, it would seem. To this end Karen stood up, reluctantly (this chair is as comfortable as the bed, how is that possible?), and set the pistol down on the chair.
Either it’s him or it isn’t - I am sure enough that he won’t hurt me, whatever he may be.
Turning towards the door she hesitated; the door of the nearest wardrobe was slightly ajar. It had not been the night prior, she was fairly certain of it.
The rug underfoot was plush on her bare feet as Karen crossed the room and opened the wardrobe, and the door swung smoothly outwards. The closet interior stretched back into the shadows and she found herself stepping closer to get a better look at the contents.
Oh.
The dress was...almost deceptively simple. A square bodice, close-fitting sleeves to the elbow, pulled in at the waist, long enough to brush the ground. It was the fabric that caught her attention, a soft-looking cream ( silk?) that was heavily embroidered with pale flowers - roses opening from bud to bloom on the vine.
Almost without thinking Karen reached forward, brushing her fingers against the sleeve. It felt delicate and expensive and was certainly a finer cloth than she had ever owned. She quickly pulled her hand back; though she was squeaky clean thanks to the baths, it still felt a little strange to handle such a lovely dress.
While she was standing in such close proximity to the wardrobe, she was able to observe a small panel sliding back in the floor. Within that hidden hollow she saw a book and what looked like a pen; and again, heedless, Karen pulled book and pen from their hiding place, noting as she did so that the panel slid back into place and concealed this small hiding space.
The pen was odd, less functional and more a facsimile of a pen. It was wooden throughout, carved and turned to mimic the shape of a slender branch with a comfortable divot for holding. It felt queer in her hand, at once familiar to hold and strange to look at. The book was more practical, bound in a warm brown leather with the words Haut-Parleur Forêt embossed on the spine.
Curious.
Unsurprisingly, as Karen began to page through the book she saw that text was written in French - though the more she turned the pages, the more it seemed that she could understand. It appeared to be two different people corresponding, and one set of handwriting seemed...very familiar indeed.
“Je suis très fatigué being pregnant! My feet are tellement enflé, I can hardly walk.”
“Mère envoûtante soak your feet un moment I will draw you a bath.”
“I cannot, le bébé besoin de manger.”
“Mère envoûtante, let me feed him and keep his attention. Vous reposer.”
It was a conversation between servant and master, at times plaintive on the part of the master and cajoling on the part of the servant. The handwriting that she recognized had last been seen on a foggy mirror, in the privy.
Who was talking to the house?
She continued to flip through the book, scanning for some kind of clue as to the owner's identity. It came on the last page, in perfectly legible and perfectly devastating English.
"Frank is coming home today, the children and I have missed him so much. When he has rested we shall all go to market to celebrate!"
Oh. Oh no.
Karen sat down on the floor, a sick curdled feeling growing in the pit of her stomach.
His wife and children. 'On the grave of my wife and children', he swore.
The thought could hardly be borne, but she had to know their story now that she had looked into this woman's personal writings. Perhaps the house would be of some help. Feeling not a little bit absurd, but determined, she leaned down and spoke into the book.
"...house?"
Almost as soon as she'd spoken, her question appeared in the first blank page (and my handwriting, how does it know?!). A few seconds later a response was written in the book, the same handwriting tracing familiar English letters.
{Yes, hello.}
She paused a moment, two, thinking of the best way to phrase her questions.
"Can you tell me where the owner of this book is buried?"
Her question was written out quickly as before, but the answer was some time more in coming. Finally, the words came slowly like bubbles rising up to the surface of a pond.
{She is with her children in the garden.}
The garden, the garden, I dreamt about a garden didn't I...?
"Can you...will you show me the way to the garden?"
Another long pause, long enough that Karen felt she might have pushed too far in her questioning before her answer came.
{I will lead you to them.}
There was a noise, like shifting, tearing, and the second wardrobe door cracked open. Through this crack light and noise came into the room. Karen stood, still holding the book and pen, and opened the wardrobe wide.
It wasn't a wardrobe, it was a gate - Karen could see a path, and roses growing in a wild tangle across it. Somewhere, the robin was singing loudly. She took a deep, steadying breath and stepped through.