THE STRANGE GIRL BEHIND THE DOOR

❝

STANDING outside the mansion, the last embers of twilight painted the sky in hues of lavender and rose; Charlotte felt buoyed by the sight of her elder sister, and an honest smile spread across her face. 

"I am glad to see you here at this hour, Carmelia." Charlotte said amiably, brushing the loose strands of hair that framed her face away with a gentle flourish filled with affection. 

Tall and graceful, her sister stood there holding her fan like a swag of proper etiquette straining under the straightness of a blade. Carmelia's lips seemed to twitch with the semblance of a smile, tight and brittle, dying premature deaths. 

Helena, who had remained with Charlotte all day, made herself scarce. She curtsied politely, sensing the hushed atmosphere, and uttered, "I will let you two have some time together," but then thought apprehensively, "Staying between them would just make it worse." She hurried back to the mansion, glancing over her shoulder once. 

Carmelia followed Helena with her gaze before returning to Charlotte, a look in her eyes that Charlotte could not decipher. The smile that began to unfurl on her lips was one of amusement, maybe even merriment; underneath, however, was something a lot sharper. 

"I imagined that you would be in the ballroom, accepting the admiration that you draw to yourself so effortlessly. Yet, here you are, slinking into the outside of the estate as though you're trying to conceal a scandal," said Carmelia, her voice light and almost airy, steeped, however, in something bitterly pointed. 

Charlotte blinked at her sister in confusion, "I just needed to have a walk— it was a long day…," her voice trailed as she walked closer, eyes bright, hoping for a connection. "Actually, I wanted to talk to you for a while. I hardly see you these days." 

With her head slightly tilted, Carmelia regarded her sister with an eerie calmness. "Oh, really? How surprising. I thought you would have all those in the mansion-no, the whole town-bending backward to spend time with you." 

This time, Charlotte's brows were knitted together. "Why on earth would you say that?"

"Just an observation," Carmelia said, a bit nonchalantly, flicking her fan now open. "After all, everything tends to revolve around you."

The words failed to sting where they were meant to; not on Charlotte, who seemed only to let out a light chuckle.

"I miss you, you know that?" She took a few steps closer, with a very soft, vulnerable expression. "You always had this grace and poise when we were younger, and I used to sneak into your room sometimes just to watch you brush your hair." 

A memory almost pulled Charlotte's lips into a fond smile. "I copied the way you used to hold your fan." 

Carmelia froze, and then her smile withered. The fan even stopped mid-swing. "Really?" Her voice tightened, dropped a little. "How flattering." 

Charlotte was too caught in her reminiscing to notice this development. "Yes. You're so graceful. I always wished I could be more like you." 

The snap of Carmelia's fan closing sounded throughout the evening like a slap. "That's rich from you, Charlotte. People already have seen perfection in you." 

Charlotte's smile faltered, caught off guard. "What do you mean?" 

"Nothing," Carmelia said too quickly. "Forget it." 

He turned with skirts brushing the gravel, beginning to walk back toward the door. 

But Charlotte stepped toward her, instinctively reaching out. "Carmelia, wait," she said. 

Her sister stopped, her back still to Charlotte. "What?" 

"I just... I want us to be closer. Like we were before." Heavier hope lodged in her voice, and it cracked slightly. 

And one long, stretched silence fell in which Charlotte waited, her heart clinging to the possibility of reconciliation. 

When Carmelia spoke, the voice she used was softer, but the bitterness stuck to it like frost on a windowpane. "Some things aren't ever meant to go back to what they were, Charlotte." 

Charlotte remained frozen in her place as she watched her sister walk away, swallowed into the warm lights of the mansion, unaware of the tempest brewing beneath the surface of Carmelia's poised exterior. 

Alone in the cooling dusk, Charlotte whispered to herself, "She seemed upset… Did I say anything wrong?" 

out of the mansion: corridors and candlelight, Carmelia holding the fan tight until her knuckles turned white. 

"Of course she doesn't see it, she never does." 

"Everybody loves Charlotte-the perfect daughter. The darling of the family. The one who gets proposed to by a prince while I—" and her breath faltered as she moved briskly down the corridor. "While I'm forgotten in the corner, I pass off to dance with second sons and scholars."

She entered her chambers with perfect grace, locking the door behind her. Alone, her shoulders sunk. It was not only envy but years of being unseen. Years of performing perfection while feeling like a shadow. 

She set the fan down on her vanity, and her fingers shook as she uttered to herself, "She still looks at me like I was her hero." 

"As if nothing ever changed." 

The ache in her chest tightened. Because once, Charlotte's adoration had been everything. And now, it felt like salt on an open wound. The reflection in the mirror stared back at her-a woman wrapped in silk and poise, barely holding together the pieces beneath. 

And outside, under the pale lavender sky, Charlotte remained ignorant, still clinging to the memory of the sister she once knew.

Upon entering the majestic interior of the mansion, Charlotte was met by a wave of hurried footsteps, swishing fabrics, and almost silent but urgent whispering. The heat of the hall was heavy with lilies and perfume. There was barely time for her to breathe when a maid appeared and gave an elaborate curtsy, two sets of napkins properly folded over her arms.

"My lady," she began, her eyes wide with expectation. "Will you go for the Majestic crêpe de Chine or Royal Taffeta?"

Charlotte blinked at the fabrics, the soft textures blending together as her thoughts raced to comprehend the question. Before she could respond, another voice made offerings.

"My lady, mousse à la royale or crèmes caramels?" The second maid moved forward, inserting a silver tray holding dessert cards into her line of vision. Her brows gathered in what seemed to be a hundred expressions of concern; Charlotte could be prevailed upon to do anything, she felt, for the sake of that evening.

Then came a third—almost a whisper, resplendent with awe—carrying two trays of soft velvet, one bearing a necklace of deep cherry red Ruby, brazenly commanding in its brightness, while the other had a shade of soft violet Amethyst, cool and enticing in its very mystery. 

"Mademoiselle," she curtsied humbly. "Would you prefer Ruby or Amethyst?"

The three had now formed a complete circle around her, like a court of judgment, all speaking in concert as their questions tumbled upon one another, begging for approval, straining for assent, clamoring for her decision. The soft shadows of their faces blurred her view, and the rising tumult of faraway preparations in the mansion folded into their voices.

The quick passing of breath escaped Charlotte. "So many choices, so many eyes. Why does everything feel like an examination?" Her heartbeats fluttered against her ribs, as if the wings of a trapped bird.

She looked at the ruby for a moment, trying to decide whether it was too bright, too clear, and therefore too unlike her. The Amethyst—the soft shade of violet called to her in a way that made her pause. It reminded her of dusks, of silences that followed storms, and of color—her own stilling in the mirror dancing with sleepless nights.

She reached for it—not gracefully, but more in a snatch, as if for a breath just before a wave would suffocate her. And she took the Amethyst. 

It was lovely. Cold against her skin. Solid. Real.

"I guess I'll be fine with whatever choices are made," she said, her voice quieter than intended but somehow still steady. "What matters more than anything is that the guests enjoy their evening." 

She attempted to smile, but it barely left her lips. She still felt moderately caged, mostly due to the very pressing feeling that took hold of her.

The maids exchanged incredulous glances and bowed with improved coordination. Then they left in a flurry, like birds let out of a cage. 

Turning to the third maid with the velvet tray carrying the necklace—Audrey, she thought, though names were beginning to slip from her grasp—"Audrey," she commanded, "Take this jewel to my room."

Audrey bowed again and hurried out.

For just a moment, Charlotte paused, out of place in the midst of her ordeal. The din quieted around her just a little bit; in her insides, it was churning up. Somehow, she had lost her sense of whether she had done anything right or whether anything mattered anymore.

The dress. The desserts. The music. The jewels.

It all felt like far too much. 

"And yet," she ruminated, "one would expect me to struggle to make it through with this equanimity, like some swan on a plate-glass lake."

"I absolutely cannot allow myself to stumble any longer," she reminded herself, pulling out a slow and ineffective breath that scarcely reached her lungs. "Even if I should be crumpling under all this silk and ceremony."

She raised her chin, and the soft echo of her footsteps filled the hall. But the pressure stayed, stilling inside, unarticulated; nevertheless, it waited to burst forth.

When Charlotte mounted the grand staircase of Deloney mansion, the atmosphere still charged with preparations, she was held in the curve of the landing. From across the floor, a gentleman was descending, moving with such grace that his entrance commanded great attention. Their eyes met—her startled, wide; his calm and discerning. 

The gentleman halted and dipped low into a bow. "Lady Charlotte," he said, that well-mannered baritone voice smooth as honey while hinting at most refined courtesy, "What pleasure it is to greet you after the elapse of so many years." 

He wore clothes that exuded wealth but not flamboyance. Green velvet coat with shaded silver thread embroideries along the cuffs and lapels. Pale ivory silk cravat set crisply below a tall collar; tailored vest glistening with antique buttons engraved with the crest of his house. He was draped in nobility poured from an exquisite mold; poised, elegant, and unshakeable.

For an instant, Charlotte appraised him in silence. He was breathtakingly dignified. Waves of auburn hair as deep as the petals of a red rose were swept back from his forehead to reveal silver eyes that could sparkle with clarity and intelligence. His facial contours were somewhat stylized and symmetrical and soft on the jawline owing to the kindness in his expression. 

She curtsied and did not lower her eyes over a smile of courtesy. "Your Grace, Duke Albrecht. You honor us with your presence. I trust your journey to our estate was without trouble." 

"The roads from Trois-Rivières were unusually forgiving this time," he said with a light chuckle. "I am grateful for the invitation. It is great that while we celebrate today, I am also here on business with your father, to discuss the proposed expansion of timber distribution routes from the northern frontier. Your family's lands play an important role in it, and it would be hard to overlook any counsel your father would have concerning those lands." 

Charlotte inclined her head in agreement, her voice assumedly gracious yet inquiring. "In this case, I trust your negotiations will be very successful. My father has long valued the partnerships that our families have developed over time." 

"So do I," Albrecht added gently. "It is rare to find such constancy between noble houses in such times as these." 

A gentlest hush dulled the conversation for a moment in which Charlotte caught herself wondering how very different Carmelia would have felt standing here, conversing with him. But at this moment, a bond was forged between their houses, only in politics and pragmatism. 

Albrecht barely tilted backward, signaling a courteous retreat. "Forgive me, Lady Charlotte. I believe your father is awaiting me in the drawing room. May your celebration tonight shine amidst the storm." 

"Thank you, Your Grace," replied Charlotte with a slight drop of her head. "May your conversation with my father flow as smoothly."

With a final nod, the Duke departed down the staircase, leaving in his wake a faint scent of cedarwood and sage. Charlotte remained on the landing, still in contemplative silence, in which she watched his figure disappear into indistinctness, before she turned and continued her ascent, shuffling slowly, burdened under the weight of her evening duties and the strange, new pulse of emotions awakened by the encounter. 

As she was carefully folding a fragile piece of cloth in preparation for the trunk, Charlotte suddenly spied a tiny rip in the sleeve of her dress. Laying her fingers on the edge of the tear, her mind flashed back to the earlier incident in which the Countess's maid had gripped her arm too tightly. The cruelly jagged tear beneath her fingertips was a stark reminder of the discomfort and stress of the day.

Helena, who was methodically folding Charlotte's things for packing, looked up when she noticed Charlotte's distracted smattering of movement. "Oh, My Lady!" she said, her voice rippling with concern. "Your sleeve appears to be torn. Will you allow me to repair it for you once you've changed?" 

Charlotte let out a very faint sigh, mixing exasperation with weariness in her voice. "Oh, Helena, I'm not bothered. I've got far more important things to do." 

Helena regarded Charlotte's state sympathetically, nodding. "Certainly, My Lady. Once you conclude your requirements today, I will take care of it. If, however, there is anything else you need before tonight..."

Charlotte's hands became frozen over the trunk, a faint tremor of uncertainty passing over her. "Helena, what will happen to me once I finally escape from my parents' shackles?" Her voice may have been steady, but emotions she refused to acknowledge threatened to overwhelm her. Fear and yearning creased her as she thought of something that lay at the end of her life, a world far removed from the gilded cage that was her life. "What if I have been in their grip for so long that I no longer know who I truly am, or what I would really want?" 

Helena's look softened; her general composure now bore a more personal edge as she turned to face Charlotte. "My Lady, you are far more than anything they choose to constrain you with. Your very worth has never been defined by them, no matter how they have tried to draw the lines upon your life. You have a heart and a mind of your own, and that they cannot take away from you." 

Charlotte's gaze drifted toward the window, where sunlight streamed in through the lace curtains and danced upon the floor. "But will I be free, Helena? Truly free?" she murmured, alternately filled with hope and heavy with doubt. "Or will I be lost in a world that never cared about me, a world that sees me merely as a tool, and a pawn in its game?" 

Helena gave a little smile of assurance as she placed a gentle hand on Charlotte's arm. "You will find your way, My Lady. The world may be scary, but it is unlimited, and beyond these walls lie so many possibilities. You are strong—stronger than you think." 

Charlotte's heart fluttered at the thought of getting away, yet a dim specter of doubt loomed. "I hope you are right. I'm not sure what will be coming, but I can't stay here forever. Tonight will be the start of it all." 

Helena nodded, quiet determination radiating from her. "And as always, I will be right beside you, keeping you safe, My Lady."

Before Charlotte could answer, there was a light knock on the door. She hurriedly shut the trunk under her bed, making sure to conceal it. Helena went to answer, but the sight that met her when she opened the door left her frowning in confusion. 

With a creak, Lady Eleanor entered, her gentle face surrounded by the warm familiarity that Charlotte had known all her life. 

"My Lady, are you alright?" Eleanor asked gently, concerned in her voice. "You look weary." 

Charlotte hesitated for a moment, giving a tired smile. "Just tired, Auntie Eleanor. There has been a lot to prepare for the celebrations, and I can hardly manage to keep up with everything." 

Eleanor stepped closer, scrutinizing Charlotte's face for any evidence of deeper psychological injuries. "You've been really busy. That should make anyone feel drained. But in any case, you will manage. You've been a strong one, Charlotte." 

Charlotte nodded, but her mind was racing elsewhere. A soft sigh escaped past her lips with a soft touch on the trunk while she further sank into despair. "Auntie Eleanor, may I ask you something?" 

Eleanor nodded slightly, urging Charlotte to continue. 

"I've sort of been lost in thought about..." Here Charlotte faltered, her voice almost gone. "What is going on with our sister? For a while now, she has been acting distant towards me. Is it me who did something wrong?" 

The question hung in the air as Charlotte's worries about her sister burst like a dam. 

An expression of understanding appeared on Eleanor's face as she comfortingly put a hand on Charlotte's shoulder. "Oh, sweetie, I don't think it's you. Carmelia has been wrapped up in her own thoughts for the past few days. Maybe she has been feeling the burden of things . . . especially concerning everything that has been going on with your family and the preparations regarding your future." 

Charlotte's brow furrowed with bewilderment. "What do you mean? What is troubling her?" 

Eleanor paused for a moment, looking inward, as if searching carefully for the words she would use. "It's not that she is upset with you, Charlotte. Carmelia has always, I think, been somewhat more sensitive to all of the expectations that have been placed on the two of you. And I think perhaps she is struggling with those expectations in her own way. She has been under a lot of pressure to live up to things—things that perhaps she doesn't fully understand herself." 

Charlotte felt sympathy for her sister, squeezing her heart, although she could not shake the conviction that something else was at play. "Do you think she'll ever make it back? I just want to help her." 

Eleanor smiled gently, a hint of sadness glimmering in her eyes. "Carmelia is your sister, and she loves you, even if it doesn't feel like it all the time. I'm sure she'll come around when she's ready to confront whatever has been weighing on her heart." 

Charlotte gazed down, lost in thought. "I hope so. I don't want to lose her. Not like this."

"I promise you won't lose her," Eleanor said gently. "Perhaps Carmelia should take her time in resolving her own conflicts. You have always been strong, Charlotte; her time may be to find her way now." 

Charlotte nodded, her heart heavy with the uncertain future. She couldn't yet shake off the feeling that her relationship with Carmelia had somehow changed, and at that moment, all she could do was wait and hope.

Eleanor beamed at her with a gentle smile. "Now you have plenty to worry about, dear. Let us focus on getting you through tonight's celebration." 

Charlotte elicited a forced little smile in reply, with worries for her sister still heavy on her heart. "You are right, Aunt Eleanor. Let's get through tonight first." 

Eleanor gave Charlotte a final look of reassurance before turning to leave. The door clicked softly upon closing, and for a moment, there was calm.

Charlotte and Helena threw each other relieved glances and exhaled the breath they had not dared to release until that very moment. One more milestone in the path to getting away from the life Charlotte had found oppressive all along. 

"I think we might actually pull this off," Charlotte whispered, with a glimmer of excitement rising in her tone.

Helena gave a half smile, weary yet full of hope. "Just a little while longer. Soon you shall be free."

They turned back to the trunk to finish packing and line out the final escape plan. But as the tension from Lady Eleanor's visit began to fade, came another knock on the door. 

Charlotte's heart jumped. "Helena, who could it be?" she whispered with urgency.

Helena crept towards the door, her hand poised to grasp the knob. Upon opening, she let in a girl clad in maid's attire, except these clothes were foreign to both of them and unlike any of the Deloney staff they were used to seeing. Her crimson mane shone brightly against the darkness, and the eyes glistened with a fierce intensity that defied description, much like ruby spilling forth from broken glass, thereby quickening Charlotte's pulse.

She held a scroll of parchment fastened with a seal that Charlotte could not recognize and handed it over to Helena in silence. 

Helena blinked in confusion. "Lady Charlotte... Do we have a new maid?"—her glances darting between the girl and Charlotte. 

Charlotte merely stared at the girl, an uneasy feeling settling in the pit of her stomach. "Wait..." she whispered almost inaudibly.

"Have you been sent by her?"