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Eleanor
Thediary’sleathercoveris buttery and soft against my palm, like the finest sheepskin glove that Adelaide must have worn once. My palm settles into the indent in the cover from where Beatrix must have folded it over to write about Martin. A vision comes to me:
Beatrix, with her pink cheeks instead of a mottled gray, with soft, shiny dark hair hanging in a neat plait down her back rather than the musty tendrils that cling to what’s left of her jaw – Beatrix, with wide brown eyes framed by feathery lashes. She lays down on what looks like a bunk in the servant's quarters, wearing a gray wool dress with her feet crossed casually at the ankles. There’s a hole in her tattered gray sock.
“You need to mend that,” someone calls from the bunk above. She pops her head over the side, thick, yellow braid brushes against the page, nearly knocking the pen from Beatrix’s hand.
“I shall! And watch it! You smudged the page!”
“Who are you scribbling about? It’s not that old curmudgeon, is it?”
“Martin’s not a curmudgeon. He’s a perfect gentleman, a man of the world.”
“If he’s such a gentleman, why won’t he leave his wife for you?”
Beatrix’s face darkens. It’s the first hint of the insidious contempt Beatrix holds close. She clutches the diary to her chest.
“He can’t. Her family would ruin him. Her father would take his name off the deed for the island. It simply can’t be done.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
The images blur together like a movie montage.
Martin glances at Beatrix with his eyes filled with longing as he holds Adelaide’s delicate hand at a lavish ball while Beatrix circles the room with a tray full of small tarts and pastries.
Beatrix laughs as Martin hoists her onto the banister and hikes up her skirt. Martin slipped pages of Shakespeare and pressed flowers into the gaps in the floor of Beatrix’s closet. Adelaide glowering at Beatrix. It’s as if all the puzzle pieces are finally falling into place. I’ve been given an archivist’s greatest gift: the Truth.
Then, it’s a frigid January day. The sky is blustery and bleak. My feet slip as I fall backward. A sharp shooting pain pierces my skull. My body starts to roll down the cliffside. My shoulder blades scrape against the jagged rocks.
I know that I'm going to die.
JOSEPH
Eleanor's eyes glaze over when she places her hand on the diary. Something shifts in the air; even with the glow of the candles, the room seems darker. The atmosphere is heavier somehow. I feel dread settle onto my shoulders, threatening to crush me. The candles flicker once, then twice, before snuffing out completely.
“Shit,” Dante mutters. He tries to light the candles again, but it’s no luck. I can hear the sound of his Zippo trying and failing to catch the flame in the dark. It’s freezing in here.
“Joseph,” Eleanor growls.
She reaches out to touch me in the dark like she has dozens of times before, but something deep in my gut tells me that it’s not Eleanor who’s sitting across from me. Her belly bumps up against the table as she stands up from her chair and reaches out, tracing my jaw with the pad of her index fingers. Goosebumps spring up along my neck. I can’t explain what’s changed. All I know is that Eleanor isn’t in the room with us right now; Beatrix is.
“My darling boy,” Eleanor coos. Her jaw pops. Her voice is three octaves lower than normal. She tilts her head to the side, studying me.
“Do you remember me?” She asks.
“Uh,” I hesitate, which startles her.
She springs up and slams her palms against the dining room table, rattling the candle holders.
“Ungrateful! Insipid! You Idylewylde men have always been so selfish! But oh, Joseph. It’s finally happening.” An unsettling swell of laughter emerges from the back of her throat. She reaches out to touch me again, but I lean back. She grabs my chin and grips it hard. Our noses touch.
“We can be together.” She laughs again, and Dante looks nervous for the first time all night.
“We can raise these babies together. We can be a family!”
I feel frozen on the spot. I look into Eleanor’s eyes, which are usually warm and inviting. Instead, two vacant green voids stare back at me.
“Beatrix, you need to leave,” Dante commands.
