The Surviving Trace

by Calia Read

  With the pink walls and pink ruffled comforter, it looks as if a bottle of Pepto Bismol blew up in here. The only items in this room that aren’t pink are the black marble fireplace, the furniture, and the heavy pale green curtains that are tied back from the windows. They’re half open, making the sheer curtains hung behind the drapes blow into the air.

  I get out of bed and walk to the closest window. Curling my hands around the lip of the window frame, I stare outside. It’s nothing but green plush land as far as the eye can see. There are no blacktop roads with cars flying by. What I thought was a circular drive last night is confirmed in the daylight. A water fountain stands proudly in the middle of the drive, trimmed shrubs surrounding it. The circular drive connects to a mile-long driveway that weaves in and out of a heavily wooded area. But the most beautiful sight is the Spanish moss and the live oak trees that hug the gravel road.

  I continue to stand there and observe everything for a few minutes, noticing how the only things that can be heard are the birds chirping and the wind making the leaves rustle. The lack of honking horns, car doors slamming and voices should be harmonious. Soothing. But all it does is make the hairs on my arms stand up. It only magnifies my situation and highlights how far out of my element I genuinely am.

  With a shaky sigh, I turn around and run straight into the lady who’s been in here since I woke up. She takes a quick step back and nervously holds out a pale pink silk garment. Almost in supplication.

  I stare at it in confusion. “What’s this?”

  She frowns. “Your dressing gown.”

  She calls it a dressing gown, but to me, it’s a pretty version of a robe.

  We watch each other warily, neither of us saying a word. After a few seconds, I reluctantly put on the robe. The woman briskly turns on her heels and opens up the narrow closet doors and the armoire on the opposite side of the room. I peek into both closets. They’re packed to the hilt with clothes.

  I step back from the closets and let the lady go about her business. How can I ask her what her name is without sounding like a complete moron?

  Then I think of something, “Is… Nat up?”

  The lady whips around and gawks at me with wide-eyed fear. “No, ma’am. Not that I’m aware of.”

  “Oh.”

  She stands there, her back ramrod straight and doesn’t say another word. Neither do I.

  Then a short, sturdy woman comes barreling into the room with folded white sheets in her arms. She gives the maid a once-over and her already thin lips flatten into a thin line. “Hannah! What are you doing standin’ there? Help Mrs. Lacroix!”

  Hannah. So she does have a name.

  When the haggard older lady looks my way, she gives me an apologetic smile. “I’m so sorry, ma’am. She’s new. This won’t happen again.”

  I’m hardly coming to terms with what’s happening, and everything coming from her mouth sounds like a different language. It takes me a few seconds to reply. “She’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

  The lady appears taken aback before she quickly says her goodbye. She leaves the room, but not before she casts Hannah a murderous expression.

  The second the door closes, Hannah turns to me, her eyes watering. “Ma’am, I’m so sor—”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Hurriedly, I rush forward and grip Hannah’s hands. “I need you to answer one thing for me.”

  She nods warily.

  “Where are we?”

  She frowns. “Excuse me?”

  “Where are we?” I enunciate carefully. “Pennsylvania, right?”

  Desperately, I wait for her to reply. All I need is a simple nod from her so I can feel marginally better. I might be in a place I’ve never been, but at least I’ll be in the same state—hopefully, the same city—as when I left. It’ll be a good start.

  She shakes her head, and my heart drops to my stomach. “No, ma’am. We’re in Charleston, South Carolina.”

  Charleston, South Carolina?

  I’ve never been there. Not once.

  I drop her hands and step away. A stronger breeze comes through the window, carrying in the faint smell of flowers and fresh air.

  Fresh air that you have no chance of getting in a city.

  And out of everything that’s happened to me over the course of the past few hours, that’s the one thing I react to.

  I slap a hand over my mouth. “I’m gonna be sick.”

  Hannah rushes forward, concern written across her features, and guides me toward a closed door. The whole time I breathe through my nose and fight the urge to dry heave. After she opens the door, I run straight toward the toilet and vomit. Not once, but twice.

  Even when there’s nothing left in my stomach, I hover above the toilet, body shaking and my eyes clenched shut. How the hell is this possible? Something like this shouldn’t happen. But it is. Sure, I can continue pretending this is all a dream, but it’s time to face the truth.

  “Ma’am? Are you okay?”

  I lift my head and swallow, ignoring the burning sensation lingering in my throat. “I’m fine.”

  But I’m not fine. In fact, I’m so far from fine that fine is a black speck to me. I feel lost. Like a tornado picked up my entire life and randomly dropped me in some unknown place where I’m surrounded by people I’ve never met. And the fact that those people think I’m someone else makes it worse.

  Thinking about the entire situation makes me want to vomit again. Taking a few deep, calming breaths, I finally push away from the toilet.

  “Would you prefer to lie back down?” Hannah asks.

  I try to blink the maid into focus, but there’s so much running through my mind it’s impossible. “If I lie down, I doubt I’ll get back up.”

  That might be the most honest thing I’ve said in hours.

  “Are you ill? I can send for the doctor if you’d like.”

  “No,” I reply. “No. I’m good.”

  A wet washcloth dangles in front of me. I grab it and croak out thanks before I place the warm rag on my face. After a few seconds, I lower the rag and take another deep breath.

  Beside me, Hannah fidgets, shifting from foot to foot. She probably thinks I’m insane. Hell, even I feel crazy. She never says a word though. I observe the bathroom. The toilet has a wooden rim seat. The tile floor is a black-and-white checkerboard. The walls are painted a pale pink to my horror.

  A claw-foot tub on the other side of the room has a circular iron rod above it. A pink bath curtain is hooked around the rod. A full shower head descends from the ceiling. Next to the tub are white handles for the shower. A medicine cabinet is directly above the white sink.

  Curved windows on the opposite side of the room present another stunning view of the outdoors.

  “Do you need my help?” Hannah quietly asks.

  Gripping the rag tightly in both hands, I shake my head and get up.

  Wordlessly, Hannah leaves the bathroom with me following her. She goes back to the closet while I survey the vanity against the wall. Perfumes bottles are lined up in a neat row. A gold gilt comb and hairbrush are angled to the side. Perched on the edge of the table is a vintage curling iron that resembles a pair of gardening shears rather than something to wrap your hair around.

  “Is this on?” I ask.

  The maid shakes her head. “Do you want your hair curled today, ma’am?”

  “No. I…” With one quick glance in the mirror, I see that my hair resembles a rat’s nest. It’s a disaster, but there’s no way in hell I’m letting her get near my hair with that fire hazard. “I’ll put it in a ponytail.”

  Again, with the funny look. I’m starting to think that’s the only expression Hannah is capable of giving.

  “What would you like to wear today?”

  “I’ll wear my dress from last night.”

  Hannah’s cheeks turn bright red. She turns back to the closet for a moment, then twists around, two hangers in her hands. A cream blouse hangs on one hanger while the other has a long n
avy skirt perfectly pressed. “This gored skirt came in yesterday. I think this will be very flattering on you.”

  I don’t know what the hell a gored skirt is. All I can think is that I should be wearing my clothes, not someone else’s. “Where are my clothes?”

  She lowers the hangers and stares at me with wide, fearful eyes. “I only did I what I was told, ma’am!”

  “What happened to my dress?” I repeat.

  “Étienne took it,” Nat says as she breezes into the room.

  At the interruption, Hannah appears so relieved, I’m convinced she’s going to pass out.

  “What do you mean he took it?”

  Nat cocks her head to the side. “Exactly what I said. He took the dress and ordered it to be destroyed. Which is a shame; the design and straight lines were simply flawless. Even Hannah was fascinated. Weren’t you, Hannah?”

  Hannah nods rapidly, resembling a bobblehead doll. At this point, I think Hannah would agree to anything just to leave this room.

  Nat grins mischievously and leans in toward me. “I helped change you and we must talk about your undergarments. Wherever did you get that corset?”

  “Uhh…” Pulling the nightgown away from me, I glance at my bra and then Nat. I drop the material and struggle to come up with an answer. “I bought it in France?”

  “What is it called?”

  “A bra?” I reply, uncertainly.

  Nat looks fascinated, but I have more pressing matters to focus on. Like my getting my clothes back. “I’ll tell you everything you want to know about the bra, but first, you need to tell me why Étienne took away my clothes.”

  “I know you like to push boundaries, but lasts night’s outfit was too much for him. So he got rid of it,” she explains cheerfully.

  This man. Oh, this man. Not even hours after meeting him, I already I hate him. “Where is he?”

  “He’s downstairs eatin’ breakfast.”

  I charge out of the room, but at the last second, Nat jumps in my path.

  “What’s wrong?” she asks.

  “I want my clothes back.”

  She laughs and gestures to the open closet bursting at the seams with dresses. “Silly, they’re all right there.”

  I shake my head and walk around her. “You don’t get it.”

  I have no idea where I’m going. But that doesn’t matter. I have anger as my compass. I’ll find this man one way or another.

  I know I’m overreacting. It’s a simple dress that I wasn’t particularly attached to. But that dress was mine. Better yet, it was one of the only links to my time, and he took it away as if my possessions are his.

  The second floor is bigger than I anticipated. I get lost twice before I find the staircase. My robe billows out around me as I fly down the stairs.

  The same man who stood at the front door last night is back again, only this time he notices me. Shock is written across his face.

  “My lady, Hannah is more than happy to help you get dressed,” he says.

  “I’m already dressed.” I glance down at the nightgown and keep walking.

  “I think it—”

  “I’m fine,” I cut in.

  In all actuality, I’m not. Once again, I become lost, moving in and out of rooms larger and grander than the last and all decorated in Louis XVI style. After the fourth room, I return to the man in the foyer.

  He points toward my left. “The dining room is that way. Four doors down. I believe you’ll find Mr. Lacroix.”

  “Thank you.” I pause, waiting for him to give me his name.

  “The name is Ben, ma’am.”

  “Thank you, Ben.”

  Finally, I find the dining room. For a second, I stand in the massive doorway and take a deep breath and stare at the room in awe. Wainscoting travels the length of the entire room. The rest of the walls are covered in gold-embossed wallpaper. It’s offset by cream-colored silk curtains layered in swags and jabots. They’re pulled back, letting in sunlight. It bounces off the polished oak table large enough for forty people. It’s set for only four.

  Reality comes slamming back into me as the person at the head of the table lowers a newspaper.

  “Ah, the lord of the manor!” I remark dryly.

  Étienne arches a brow. “Good mornin’.” There’s nothing pleasant about his greeting.

  “You and I need to talk.”

  He deliberately inspects me, a muscle in his jaw ticking. Sleep did nothing to ease his anger. If anything, he seems further enraged. “Couldn’t find anythin’ to wear this mornin’?”

  Ignoring his question, I hurry forward. I don’t stop until I’m right next to his chair. “Give me back my clothes.”

  “My darlin’ wife,” he drawls, “you have to be more specific.”

  I swallow down the urge to snap at this man. “The dress I wore last night. I want it back.”

  He snorts loudly and goes back to scanning the newspaper. “That wasn’t a dress. More like a piece of cloth stretched over your body.”

  “I happened to like that piece of cloth. Now give it back.”

  “I’m afraid that’s impossible.”

  “Why?”

  He turns the page. “I had one of the servants burn it.”

  “You moron!”

  Étienne drops the newspaper on the table. If I weren’t living off of adrenaline, I would’ve shrunk away from the dangerous gleam in his eyes. Instead, I stare right back, refusing to back down. Étienne looks like the kind of man who feeds on fear.

  Usually, I’m not this bold. But the anger and frustration of being trapped in an unknown place have been simmering inside me. And Nat telling me that Étienne took something of mine has finally given me a channel to direct my anger at someone.

  “Excuse me?” he finally asks.

  “Are you deaf? I called you a moron. That was my dress, and you had no right to take it away, let alone burn it.”

  “Technically, it was my dress because I paid for it.”

  “No, I paid for it,” I shoot back.

  He closes his eyes and rubs his upper lip. “God. Can you please get dressed?”

  “I’m trying, but you’re making it hard for that to happen.”

  “You have closets filled with clothes. I’m sure you can find somethin’.” He lifts the newspaper as though the conversation is effectively over.

  I’ve never had someone so blatantly dismiss me. Forget taking a deep cleansing breath or counting to ten. This dude is an asshole. I snatch the newspaper out of his hands. His eyes turn murderous.

  Slowly, he leans back in his chair. “What has you so bothered this mornin’? Are you upset your party ended early?”

  “That wasn’t my party.”

  He tilts his head back and laughs loudly. My anxiety only heightens. His laughter fades and there’s the smallest trace of a smile on his face, but his eyes are cold as they sweep over me. “Who knew you could be so funny?”

  “I’m not being funny. I’m telling the truth.” I take a deep. There’s going to be no opportune time to tell him the truth, so why not now? “Look. I get that you think I’m your wife, but the truth is—”

  “What are you two hollerin’ about so early?” Livingston says as he breezes into the room.

  “It’s eight in the mornin’,” Étienne points out.

  “For me, that’s early.”

  “Some people are already up and gettin’ ready for work, Livingston.”

  Livingston winces. “Don’t say that vile word.” He snatches a piece of fruit from the middle of the table and walks past me, but not before he musses my hair and smirks. “Serene. You’re lookin’ ravishin’ as always.”

  I can’t tell if he’s being serious or not. I continue to glare at Étienne.

  Livingston sits to my left and stares between Étienne and me. “Does either of you care to explain what you are arguin’ about?”

  “No,” Étienne says at the same time I say, “Yes.”

  Livingston grins wickedly. I
point at Étienne. “I need to talk to this douchebag, but he won’t listen.”

  Livingston’s brows raise. “I’m not familiar with the term douchebag, but it doesn’t sound nice.” He turns to Étienne. “Does it, brother?”

  Étienne ignores him and stands. I take a small step back. I forgot how tall he is. Last night, he was a hot mess. This morning he’s a bit more presentable. He’s wearing navy striped worsted trousers and a waistcoat and tie in the same color. His white shirt is perfectly pressed, the cufflinks gleaming in the sunlight. He’s freshly shaved, which only reveals how pronounced his cheekbones are. He’d be handsome—gorgeous even—if it weren’t for that hawkish nose and scar.

  “I need to go; I’m late for work.”

  I follow him. “Forget the dress; I have something more important to talk to you about.”

  Abruptly, he turns around, making me run straight into him. I stumble back a few steps. Instead of reaching out to steady me, Étienne remains perfectly still. He raises both brows and glances at me impatiently. “Well?”

  I know what I need to say. I just don’t know how to say it without coming off as a complete psychopath.

  “I think I know what you want to talk to me about,” Étienne says arrogantly. He pulls a wallet out of his back pocket and sifts through the bills as though they’re a deck of cards.

  I gently push his wallet toward his stomach. “I don’t want your money. I already told you this isn’t about the dress.”

  Étienne appears momentarily shocked, but quickly his mask of indifference is back in place. “Then there’s nothin’ to discuss.”

  He tucks his wallet back into his trousers and walks away from me. It takes me a few seconds, but I manage to block his path. Étienne dodges right. So do I. He feigns left. I follow. I become his shadow, matching him move for move until he grips my shoulders painfully and turns me until my back is against the wall. Étienne’s chest brushes against my own. The scent of his aftershave wafts around me. I gasp for breath. Only because I’m scared.

  That’s it.