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C
AMILLE GROANED IN her sleep. It felt like someone was trying to pull her out of her dream, but she fought to hold onto it despite not knowing exactly what the dream was. Opening her eyes, she groaned again. The air felt heavy and stuffy, like it hung over her in a thick cloud. Reaching out, she tapped the bedside table until she found the lamp and turned on the switch.
The old woman’s face illuminated right in front of her, just inches away. Camille screamed, but no sound come out. She scrambled backward over the bed until she bumped against the headboard and had nowhere else to go. The woman held her gaze with the eyes Camille had seen a dozen times—though instead of the mischievous glint, there was something darker, almost malicious.
Camille’s heart pounded painfully against her chest as she struggled to breathe. The old woman’s presence seemed to suck the very air from the room. She wanted to speak, but no sound whatsoever came from her mouth, even when she felt like a gaping goldfish. Forcing herself to calm the hysteria threatening to overcome her, she instead broke the stare and gazed at the rest of the woman’s body.
The old woman bent at the waist to lower herself toward where Camille had been sleeping. She looked real enough—there was certainly nothing ethereal about her. When she reached out to touch the woman, she quickly yanked her hand back at from the firm arm beneath the white cotton sleeve. The old woman leaned in closer, and Camille tried to push herself farther against the headboard. She had the distinct impression that the woman was going to kiss her, and she turned her head, squeezing her eyes shut. Instead, the old woman’s ice-cold hand brushed against her cheek in a dry caress. Then that hand wrapped around Camille’s throat, though her grasp wasn’t tight enough to hurt. The woman leaned closer still. “You will help me.”
Camille tried to free herself from the grasp, but her eyelids grew heavy, and she felt herself slipping back into slumber.
A WOMAN’S VOICE MADE Camille stir from her sleep again. There was a familiarity to it that she couldn’t place. The voice grew louder and closer the more awake Camille felt, and when she finally opened her eyes, she found herself standing and surrounded by trees.
There was a young girl in front of her. She held the hand of an older woman who was a couple steps ahead of her. The woman talked excitedly as she navigated their path through the trees. The young girl turned and looked over her shoulder, as if she sensed Camille there.
Camille knew immediately that that little girl was Mena. When the woman turned her head to be sure of the girl beside her, Camille also recognised Caroline.
A wave of dizziness made her close her eyes. She willed herself to wake from what she knew had to be a dream. Instead, when she opened her eyes again, she was looking through Mena’s eyes now instead of her own. It was disorientating; she felt like a passenger—an intruder in someone else’s body. Camille wanted nothing more than to wake up, but with each step Mena took, Camille’s vivid connection with the girl intensified. She knew, somehow, that this was a memory, that it was being revealed to her for a reason. She also knew she wouldn’t be released until she knew why.
Camille tried to focus on Caroline’s voice. There was no mistaking the woman’s excitement. She rarely waited for Mena—or Alice, as she now called the girl—to respond as she moved on to the next question or random fact about the manor. It sounded like Caroline had already convinced herself of the child’s being an orphan and was already planning their future at the manor together. Camille could feel Mena’s curiosity, her eagerness to return to the manor, and she was somewhat surprised to find Mena’s thoughts came as clearly to her as if they were her own.
It wasn’t that she expected to see her family; Mena knew that many years had passed since she’d stepped into that cave, even though it had felt like only a few seconds. They stopped when they broke free of the woods and entered the manicured grounds. Camille gasped at the beauty of the gardens before her, only slightly aware of Mena taking it all in too. The manor up ahead was still as grand as the day of her father’s party, and yet, Mena noticed that the shiny newness of her home was gone. She wondered just how many years had passed.
Caroline got down on her knees and took both of Mena’s hands in hers. “Alice, this might sound crazy, but I feel like you have been brought to me. That you’re the answer to my prayers. Naturally, we will have to seek out your parents, but if they truly are gone like you said, then I want you to know that I’d like to adopt you as my own. It doesn’t have to be right away. We can take all the time you need to get to know me, my husband, and our daughter Sybil, though she is a grown woman herself. Is that something you think you might like?” Caroline looked intently at the little girl, who stared back with a wide-eyed innocence only Camille knew wasn’t real. A sunny smile spread across Caroline’s face when Mena nodded.
The woman embraced her, and Mena fought her instinct to pull away. It surprised Camille how repulsed the young girl was by the touch of another. Even more surprising was how well Mena hid it. Camille had to keep reminding herself that this was only a child, though something about her made her seem older, wiser, and certainly intelligent beyond her years.
Caroline guided them up the back stairs and ushered them through the kitchen, through the servant’s corridor, and into a generously sized servants’ quarter. She chattered away as she led Mena into the bathroom and turned on the taps. Sitting on the edge of the bathtub, she faced the girl, and Camille got her first good look at the woman. Caroline’s pale blue eyes radiated both kindness and sadness, yet the lines spreading from the corners of her eyes showed how much she loved to laugh. She was probably in her mid-forties and quite slim—at least from what could be seen with the full skirt and long sleeves of her uniform. Her hair was a mousey brown and pulled back in a neat bun. It reminded Camille of the old woman she’d been seeing around the manor.
“Would you like me to help you undress? We will need to get you cleaned up before I take you to see the mistress.”
“I can do it,” Mena replied as her little fingers fumbled with the buttons running down the front of her dress. Caroline discretely gave the child some privacy and reached back to run her hand through the bathwater. When she was satisfied with the temperature, she helped Mena into the tub. Camille felt the delicious warmth of the water enveloping her, felt the relief of the caked-on dirt and filth starting to slip away from Mena’s skin. She almost groaned when Caroline poured a jug of water over her head, gently massaging the dirt from Mena’s hair. The woman’s voice was almost hypnotic as she talked of Mistress LeRoux and her kindness, of how she would take Mena to meet her as soon as she was ready. Caroline alternated between talking to the child and talking to herself, and Camille found it increasingly harder to pay attention the more Mena relaxed. Finally, their eyes slipped shut.
‘I know you are here with me.’
Camille opened her eyes, startled. She wasn’t sure if she’d spoken the words or if they were Mena’s, but she realised she’d somehow dozed off. Now, they were out of the bath, being wrapped in a towel. Caroline led Mena back to her room, still talking, and sat the girl on the bed. Then she went to the trunk at the foot of the bed and opened it. Camille recognised the carvings on the lid as the same trunk inside the tunnel. She watched Caroline rummage around for a few moments before withdrawing a clothbound parcel. The woman laid it on the bed and gently opened it. Within was a number of little girl’s dresses.
“These were my daughter’s. Sybil. Though she hasn’t been little for a good many years now. I was saving them for... well, that doesn’t matter now. I think they should be a perfect fit for you.” She held one up to inspect it—a navy pinafore with a white, long-sleeved shirt underneath it. Mena let the woman dress her, sitting quietly as Caroline ran the hairbrush through the child’s wet hair. Camille felt the conflict rising inside the girl—the irritation of another’s touch but also the enjoyment rising from Caroline’s fingers expertly weaving Mena’s hair into a flawless braid.
Mena was exactly where—and when—she wanted to be.
