The brisk chill brushed against Esther's face and left a lingering sting in its departure, surrounded on all sides by swaying pine trees. Just heartbeats before, she'd found herself resigning to the living room sofa, its familiar contours softly enveloping her weary form. The next she found herself here. Everything around her no longer appeared the same, and what would have been ordinary approached her as entirely foreign.
She didn't understand it. She tried. Esther knew with absolute certainty she'd been in the living room. She could not sleepwalk to the woods as she did not live near one. It was not a dream; the harshness of the air and sounds of swaying branches were far too real. What's more, the unbearable heat did not match the staggering cold.
Even with all of the contradictions, her mind fluttered back to those painted, living room walls. It'd been painted in intricate detail by Esther's grandmother many years before her birth. Her mother harboured an intrinsic love for it, treating it as a most valuable gift. If her mother had never fallen ill, care would have prevented the erosion of its very identity, and it would not have succumbed to an insidious demise. Unfortunately, the love of familial heirlooms in the form of art did not pass along to husbands. As a result, it was oppressive, shrouded in layers of neglect in varying shades of dreary grey.
When Esther found herself motivated to care for what passed to her, sharp comments would kill all motivation in her bones. Nothing would ever be good enough; especially not for her father. In the end, she'd be just as guilty, and those walls, while a beautiful recall, would be just as much of a torment. Why she could not avoid the room because of it she never understood.
She'd seen those walls for nineteen years and for many of them she'd learned to ignore the fissures and blemishes. Time had dulled her awareness of its former beauty, and had stripped her of the awe of its botanic art. The elaborate depiction of the juniper forest had once been a tool to teach her every colour under the sun, mentoring her in the realm of pigments — the stark whites, the delicate yellows, and the myriad shades of green plucked right from the heart of a verdant forest.
Despite the love for it, a love grown distant, she could not say she did not welcome the new scenery. She welcomed the absence of the vile blend of acrid cigarette fumes, the scarring odour of charred timber, and air ladened with sorrowed, hushed voices. All of the blights were transformed into a natural sanctuary, with stoic branches, and a tranquil hush only the forest could provide. Esther could only wonder in a fearful awe if the universe sympathised with her and delivered her out of pity.
Of course, this change did not come without its own terror.
The thick clothes she wore could not have been her own. She took in the black and white plaid dress which danced below a cloak as black as a raven's wing. Beneath the dress, the itch of a wool petticoat made its acquaintance with her skin, accompanied by the embracing warmth of multiple cotton stockings that climbed up her legs. Dark gloves warmed her hands and tall, sturdy black boots protected her feet. Contrary to these garments, the comfort of hoodies, the regularity of jeans, and the practicality of simpler boots were her staples. Considering that, what she wore now almost seemed as nothing more than a theatrical costume but drama had never been her pastime.
Her mind sought answers. How did this happen? How could she not remember wearing this, being here, and more, being alone? When did any of this happen, how could it? The more that went unanswered, even regarded as unfeasible, the more her stomach felt knotted and a wave of cold under the skin passed through her body. Dried lips – lips, at this point, she wondered if they were even hers – stuck together, eyes in an uneasy heaviness.
She looked down at her own body. Each glance of her features was like looking at it for the first time. The hands that touched her face felt foreign, and her fingers were now long, thin and fair, with nails manicured and bare of polish. The hair that brushed against her cheeks was incredibly long and dark brown instead of dyed-black. It truly could not be hers but it had to be, and this contradiction set a flood of panic through her veins.
She tried to make sense of it and flipped through many possibilities. Was she suffering from some kind of mental illness that had caused her to forget everything, some amnesia? From patched together memories, it'd make sense, wouldn't it? She couldn't remember much at all, at least not currently, so perhaps this loss plagued her so greatly that it broke away the events leading to this woodland and her wearing these garments? It seemed like the only explanation she could think of, but her history conflicted starkly with her present reality.
As terrifying as the situation was and regardless of the anxiety aching in her body, she needed to leave the forest and return home. Home struck her as a distant dream, an unreachable destination. Maybe there was somewhere similar waiting for her outside the forest, a place that held some semblance of familiarity. All the missing information in her head could be filled in afterwards along the way.
Right now, being trapped by trees in an area entirely unfamiliar would break her mind further, especially when that brilliant sun could no longer be seen. The resolution gave her some peace, albeit temporary. She turned in the opposite direction, reasoning that she must have been walking from it, and started down that path. Satisfaction hit her internally and washed through with joy as if she'd stumbled across treasure.
As she feared, not long into her journey the last remnants of sunlight began to fade from the sky. In place of the glorious sun came a cratered moon to take centre stage, throwing upon the land a sense of dread for those as ill-situated as she, as if it tossed upon her its own suffocating cloak. Esther's stomach clenched with fear, churning uncomfortable as nausea swept through her. She'd have to continue persevering despite the worry or else she may find something else to torment her fragile mind.
The farther she traversed, the more the confusion swept in. She started to think she went the wrong way the longer she tried to follow it until the sound of distant hooves began to emerge. It thudded heavily on the ground, breaking branches and crushing leaves, and soon the grey horse and rider came into view, identifiable only by a hooded lamp attached to the saddle.
She watched the shadowed figure climb from it, hand holding the reins, and eyed her from that distance. The silence of processing allowed her a chance to analyse his features and the way he presented himself. The man before her stood tall and strong, with broad shoulders that filled out a burgundy surcoat. His brown boots were sturdy and well-worn. His hair, rather messy, retained in the amber lighting its sandy colour. Eyes of seafoam green returned her gaze, not a smile or a glimmer of patience suggested on a firm face. Most certainly, she did not know this man even slightly, yet he looked at her as if he knew her and knew much of her. The thought concerned and unnerved her.
The rider sighed. "Well, Lady Esther?" he enquired briskly.
"What?" she returned. The shock of him stating her name rattled her brain and she shifted her weight beneath her feet. She searched her thoughts desperately for a way to navigate the conversation. He knew her name but she could not remember anything besides her history.
"Your stroll is surely over, is it not? Are you desiring to get lost?"
"I promise you, that is not my goal," she replied, and then, deciding on the straightforward approach, ushered out, "I need your help."
The impatience on his face changed. His eyebrows met and he approached her, guiding his horse along with him. "Are you injured?"
"No, I'm not injured," she answered. She looked to make her speech resemble the way he looked, hoping he'd enquire of her less, and not prolong their stay. "I simply have no lighting and no horse to return on. It troubles me."
He stared and the amused exhalation which escaped him was noted. "My lady, I believe you ought to consider bringing a companion for your next stroll, lest you become troubled." He gave her a small smile as if he read more deeply into her face and granted her mercy. "Come, let us return together."
She released a breath she'd not realised she held and took his hand, mumbling to him, "Thank you." He guided her upon the horse and went in the direction she'd chosen. Relief eased the tension in her body. One problem she encountered would now be resolved and the next would be facing whatever would come at their destination. He addressed her as someone of position, and so she could only imagine the difficulties in being mistaken as one would bring.
She answered his attempt at conversation with silence, though he continued uncaring. He spoke of a worried mother and her incessant pacing which, he proclaimed dismissively, almost drove him mad. Esther tried to envision his description of the events but she struggled in that endeavour. Had her mother, her actual mother, ever worried about her in that way? Then he spoke also of a father, a man who acted unconcerned, "dishonest" even said he, but nevertheless had ordered retrieval of her at first sight of a falling sun. The man peered countlessly out the window, "yearning most evident".
The ease in which this man described them made her feel guilty to be returning to parents, greatly worried, who were not actually hers. They worried about another woman and yet this man would bring them someone else entirely. This "Esther" had never been a noble. She'd spent many days settled on the floor entertaining herself while bickering occurred elsewhere. Then that bickering would turn into one disgruntled voice unsatisfied with any achievement she ever made. If it could have been anyone, she would have rather that voice been the softness of her mother. Though even her mother could not take it anymore.
What happened to their Esther? Why would she not be in the place where parents worried, and why would she be mistaken for her? Even with hair a different length and colour from what she remembered, she could not be the one they missed.
Eventually, they'd emerge and approach the other Esther's home. It was a towering and venerable manor. All of its features were clear, graced by the tender affections of the moon. Its white timeworn stones proudly contrasted against the dark green of the woodlands. The air of it felt heavy with grandeur and age but it did not feel unwelcoming. On the contrary, she felt the refined building beckon her, enticing her with a want to explore inside and experience a world of courtliness and history. She could almost hear the swaying of elegant dresses and the clacking of heels, the chattering at balls, and could smell plates of food she'd never dreamt of trying.
The moment of wonder and awe had passed and now they would have to face the onlookers who stood outside waiting for them. The man pulled her horse toward them until they were only steps away and dismounted, then extended his hand to help her down from the saddle. She never thought she'd experience such courtesy in her life.
She could not dwell on the experience long. A woman with long, flowing brown hair approached her first with outstretched arms which pulled her into a warm embrace. As the woman's hands clutched Esther's cloak tightly, she spoke softly in her ears: "Oh, my little darling, you frightened me. Why would you leave us as you did?"
"Now, Priscilla, we'll retire inside and have that discussion." She held Esther's shoulder more tightly, murmuring to him an almost inaudible acceptance. "Sir Alexandrin, I must express my heartfelt gratitude to you," the older gentleman said. "You found her swiftly and for that I am most thankful."
Her saviour, unknowing that he was such, bowed to him. "Your lordship, it is an honour to serve you and the house of Roland as always. The safety of Lady Esther is a duty I would gladly fulfil at any moment."
The man nodded, obviously pleased, saying nothing further as Alexandrin guided his horse away. The man turned to Esther, the pleasure escaping his face, and said to her rather firm, "As for you, you will come inside and provide an answer for your actions." He turned without another word and began leading them towards the door. The woman followed behind, her hand grasping Esther's shoulder in a reassuring gesture. The warmth from her touch seeped through Esther's cloak and into her skin.
She could not respond even if he'd offered her the opportunity, and her saviour didn't give her another word either. He went about his own way, leaving her to them without any support. But why ought he offer her any, when she was not who they all thought she was? Why would he too in that consideration? Each of them had seen her clearly in the moonlight and yet not one called her identity into question.
None of them hesitated to welcome her inside, to bring her into their home. What could she possibly tell them when she knew little about the situation herself? How would she even begin to tell them that they were wrong? She had little time to sort through her thoughts, though one in particular throbbed continuously: If they find out the truth, what happens to me?
Passed the threshold came the foyer; from there, a brief sojourn upon a handful of steps ushered her into the expanse of the great hall. To the left of there was the room she would be escorted to — the drawing room. Anchored inside were plush sofas and overstuffed chairs thoughtfully dispersed to give each divided area its own intentional purpose, for coffee or dining. Each piece of furniture basked lovingly in steady, unwavering candlelight.
To the nearby servant, he ordered refreshments and, with the practised grace of a gentleman, positioned himself with calculated casualness behind a velvet-backed chair his wife would sit upon. She answered his unspoken demand with her obedience and waited, though the wait would be for little. He did not begin speaking as soon as she hoped he would. Perhaps the words remained caged behind his lips much as her own were or, unlike her own, maybe it remained stubbornly ensnared waiting for her own. The words unsaid festered and swelled with each tick of a distant clock, and even after piecing through the various ways she could describe her gnarled confusion the thoughts still fell to nothing.
After a temporary silence, he spoke carefully. "Your mother and I are relieved that you were found safely. The welfare and well-being of one's children is, as you can no doubt surmise through the years of your dutiful care, of paramount concern to those charged with their upbringing. It is no less true of your mother and I, my child. I am quite hopeful you'll understand the importance of our questions."
She nodded, acknowledging his words in muted agreement.
"Having said this, it is now incumbent upon you to provide us with a justification for the bewildering sentiments you expressed prior to your departure and of it itself."
Nervously, she rubbed her knuckle with her thumb. "Forgive me for what I will say during this conversation. I have to be honest about everything," she said, words trailing into an exhaled breath. "I don't remember anything, and I do not believe — no, I know I'm not your Esther."
He lowered his head and his grip on the back of the chair turned his knuckles white. She recognised his obvious anger, and yet continued, trying to remain steadfast in her resolve. "I found myself in the woods. I don't know how I got there, or really who I am. Who either of you are. I'm sor—"
"Be silent," he commanded. His fingers drummed an unforgiving rhythm on the wooden trim of the chair. "Believing I am so foolish as to believe your words is gravely insulting and wounds me.". With the unfolding of every syllable, his voice transformed out of the brewing anger. "Did you expect you could yell at your beleaguered mother about some ludicrous fantasy, you had and evade repercussions by feigning a loss of memory? Oh, you truly find me to be a fool!"
Her thoughts careened into a pit of terror, gripping her mind with a fierce sense of urgency. She fought with herself about the words she chose, the words she would choose. Nothing seemed as though it would mitigate his anger. "I am so sorry," she tried once more. "I do not believe you're a fool. I really don't know and don't understand. I have memories but it's not of here..."
The laugh which tore from him was a harsh bark, devoid of any hint of amusement. "Now you remember something?" He huffed out a breath like a bull snorting in disdain, and fixed her with a sharp glare. "How conveniently your tale weaves and warps, little one. My tolerance and patience for your explanations has come to an end. Retire to your room and remain there. You will be told when you can leave, and only then."