Cavendish Estate Manor looks exactly as the last time I was here, eighteen years ago. Eighteen whole years. And yet it feels like a mere handful of seconds have ticked by in all that time.
I make a mental note to thank Seymour for letting me in, although I feel guilty for leaving Tyler downstairs, dealing with the luggage. The truth is, I needed time alone to walk the manor's hallways and find a way to reconcile the past with the present.120Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡmm8fnhPDew
I remember a smaller version of myself running down these very same halls, lined with portraits of lords and ladies, and children and dogs long gone, the gentle tune of the grand piano playing in the background, as Lady Cavendish played Strauss or Haydn.
Is it possible to feel nostalgia and alienation at the same time?
It's a kind of dissonance, I tell myself. That's it. As I know every polished surface of this place by heart, and suddenly I can't even recognize my reflection in the dim light of this late afternoon.
Who is the woman staring back at me from the glass window? What happened to the little girl I used to be? So full of energy and excitement? So full of hope and innocence and joy?
What happened to her?
What happened to all of us… To our little pack of misfits…?
Damn, how I remember everything - every smell, sound, texture and color - of those days when the four of us wandered aimlessly, chasing each other, playing around... following Alexander everywhere he took us.
I miss him. I miss his bright smile, like a sort of beacon we kept looking up to, as we all chased imaginary creatures through the labyrinth of the manor.
Now, I walk alone, my fingers tracing the wood grain of the banister, feeling each groove as if reading Braille messages from the past, breathing in the silence that envelops the estate like a forgotten melody.
I don't know where I'm going, but my steps take me towards the grand staircase overlooking the foyer nevertheless.
If I close my eyes, I can almost see a young Eleanor sitting there, on the marble steps, with an open book on her lap and her green eyes searching mine.
How many hours did we spend like this? With the little me lulled by her voice, as she explained with passionate precision the difference between gods and heroes, stars and planets?
God, Eleanor.
She could have woven myths into the air, and I'd just breathe them in, lost in the radiant glow of knowledge in her eyes, as she spoke of heroes and monsters, our fragile peace always under siege by Alexander and Tyler.
Always up to no good those two were, charging out of nowhere with wooden swords and foam guns, trying to include us in their adventures. And even back then, I knew it was a pointless battle.
We'd pretend to be annoyed, holding onto our dignity for five minutes straight, rolling our eyes in protest, pretending it wasn't exactly what we wanted too, joining in on whatever game Alexander had cooked up for us.
Tyler adored him. Literally. I remember her smile as she followed him everywhere he went, a mix of awe and a deep, aching longing to win his approval carved in her almond-shaped brown eyes.
Maybe it was the first time I realized how jealous I was of my future wife. Because Tyler adored Alexander in ways I couldn't understand at the time. Ways I so easily mistook for something else altogether.
But how could I blame her? How could I blame any of us, when Alexander Cavendish was like a magnet for the world surrounding him? An uncontrollable gravitational pull toward his warm and brilliant personality, to his easy-going charisma, his adventurous nature.
And most of all, that infectious happiness that always seemed to radiate off of his beautiful, warm green eyes.
He pulled us all in. Me, Eleanor, Tyler. All of us orbiting helplessly around his leading smile. Drawn together by an inexorable force far stronger than gravity.
I wonder if Lord William and Lady Margaret ever understood the depth of this friendship forged in sleepless nights, scraped knees and whispered truths. In shared books, blankets, and laughter, under the roof of their manor.
Their portraits hang at the top of the stairs, now, judging from up above as I slowly reach them.
Neither of their deaths surprised me as much as it should have. Lady Margaret passed away just six months after Alec; it was common knowledge that she had never recovered from his death.
I remember her as an almost ethereal figure, with the same chestnut hair as Eleanor. She always dressed in elegant, expensive clothes and exuded a practiced nonchalance in everything she did. The perfect picture of grace in all things. So unreachable. So far and detached.
But I also remember how she looked at Alec's funeral: a ghost in human form, her eyes hollow and dry as if grief had dried up all the tears at their source.
And Lord William... well, it was well known that he had been ill for some time.
Not that it really matters, now. I didn't come back for the dead; I'm here for the living.
And it seems my feet know where my heart wants to be better than my mind, because a minute later they stop in front of the old studio on the first floor. And I don't even realize I've walked right here, before my hand is hovering over the handle. And all I need to do to enter is push down.
When I cross the threshold, the distinctive smell hits me - turpentine, wood, paper, and lilies - and suddenly, a million memories rush forth, threatening to take my breath away. Like one single chord echoing upon a thousand strings.
Laughter, games, and giggles. Long hours spent here in the rainy days when the gardens were too muddy to play outside. Tyler sprawled on her belly above the Persian carpet, carefully studying maps and guides for our campaigns. Alexander perched like a parrot on the armrest of the sofa, reading aloud some adventure for our next quest, as Eleanor painted nearby and pretended not to listen…
Sometimes a die would disappear under the piano's feet, and we'd crawl across the floor searching for it, laughing uncontrollably as Tyler inevitably lost a shoe in the process.
I never understood how Dungeons & Dragons could be so interesting, but I understood why Tyler loved it so much. Its fantastic worlds populated by untamed heroes stirred her imagination in the same way music did for me. And I acutely felt that I belonged with my friends even when I couldn't understand them, just as I belonged with the piano in this room. The first one I played in my life, with Eleanor's fingers resting on top of mine as she helped me shape my very first notes.
How old was I, back then? Three? Or even two?
The upright piano still stands against the same wall, motionless and steady. But I grimace as my index finger hits the middle C, the out-of-tune sound unsettling in the quiet room.
God, I have to get it tuned before we leave.
We have time, I tell myself. All the time we need to make things right. All the time I didn't have the last time I was here.
The summer Alexander Cavendish died.
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