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Authors: Eve Marie Mont

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BOOK: A Breath of Eyre
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He stopped walking and focused on me. “Don’t underestimate good. There are times I’d give anything to be good.” His face clouded over, like some awful memory had just caught up with him. I wanted to say something to make him feel better, but I didn’t know what. When he turned to face me, he looked like he wanted to tell me something.
“What is it?” I said.
“Nothing. It’s just ...” His voice trailed off, and he bit the inside of his cheek. For a moment, his eyes held on to that vulnerability, and then they flickered with a mischievous glint. “It’s hard to take you seriously in those braids, Townsend.”
I glanced down at my costume. “I know. I feel so stupid. Nobody else dressed up.”
“Don’t feel stupid,” he said. “You look adorable.” He tugged gently on one of my braids, and my heart soared. One little compliment, and I was getting all soft around the edges.
“Michelle was the one who—” I started to say, and before I could finish my sentence, his hands were cupping my cheeks and he was leaning in to kiss me.
Whoa. I couldn’t believe that this mouth, usually set in a cocky sneer, could look so serious, or so sexy. And I couldn’t believe how much I wanted him to kiss me.
And then I remembered. This was Gray Newman, a guy with a reputation for doing just this—seducing girls with his dark looks and smooth ways. As if snapping out of a daze, I pushed him away before his lips made contact.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, genuinely puzzled. This had probably never happened to him in his life.
“I just remembered.”
“What?”
“This is wrong. This isn’t how it’s supposed to happen.”
I’d always imagined my first kiss being in the middle of a meadow under starlight. Rochester kissing Jane under the tree after he’d proposed to her. A scene from a romantic novel. Not standing drunk with Gray Newman at the side of a building.
“How is it supposed to happen?” he said, putting his hands gently on my shoulders. He didn’t look angry, merely curious. I pushed him harder this time, almost shoving him. It was starting to drizzle, and I suddenly felt very cold. I wanted to be home. I wanted to be back in my dorm, alone, safe in my bed. “This is payback for when you were five, isn’t it?” he said, a smile curling at his lips. “You’ve been waiting ten years for me to try to kiss you so you could give me a bloody nose. Go ahead. I’ve broken it once already.”
“Shut up,” I said. I knew he was only teasing me, but the truth was, I was mortified. I’d finally been given the opportunity to kiss someone, someone I found maddeningly attractive, and I’d blown it. With the magical moment lost and my buzz quickly dissipating, I felt a little dizzy. I began to walk away, not wanting him to know I’d gotten drunk off three wine coolers.
“Come back, Townsend,” he called after me. “I was only joking.”
But I kept walking until I could no longer hear the sound of his voice. Some foolish part of me wanted him to chase after me, apologize on his knees, beg forgiveness. But he’d done nothing wrong. I was just an immature girl who’d had too much to drink.
I made my way back to the parking lot, stanching tears and looking for Michelle. The rain was picking up, and people were gathering up their things. A rumble of thunder echoed above.
“Emma!” Michelle said when I found her. “Where were you?” I blinked smoke out of my eyes and shivered. “Did something happen?”
“No. I just want to leave.”
Owen sprang up and put a hand on my shoulder. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I lied.
“It’s late,” Owen said. “Let me walk you guys back.” He packed up his guitar and slung the case over his shoulder.
We made our way across the meadow and entered the woods. As we walked, the storm intensified around us. Thunder rattled the trees and shook the ground. A streak of jagged lightning flared just ahead of us, sending us all to the ground.
When we reached the stream, I froze. Owen offered to follow behind me and make sure I didn’t fall. With his hand on my waist to steady me and Michelle’s flashlight illuminating my steps, somehow I made it across. Together, we followed those little yellow markers like bread crumbs until we arrived back at the stables. The horses neighed and whinnied inside, frightened by the storm. I had a sudden wish to crawl inside Curry’s pen, climb atop him, and fall asleep on his warm, sleek fur. I turned in the direction of the barn.
“Emma, where are you going?” Michelle said.
Owen leaned his guitar case against his leg and put his jacket around my arms. He tried to steer me back to the path that led to the dorms, but I was beyond reason. “I want to sleep with Curry,” I said. Owen’s sleepy brown eyes filled with concern.
Thunder boomed again, louder this time, like a freight train hurtling past. I squeezed my eyes tight, and the blackness in front of my eyelids became cloudy and began to spin. Another terrible sound tore through the air like something being ripped apart, like the fabric of space and time.
A brilliant stab of light flashed before my eyes, and I gripped my chest, electricity surging into my heart and through my veins. Sensation washed over me in waves—first pain, then agony, then a sort of blissful calm until the bright light flickered and faded, and the world went suddenly black.
PART 2
C
HAPTER
7
I
woke with my hand wrapped tightly around my mother’s necklace, so tightly that when I uncurled my fingers, it left nail marks on my palm. I sat up too quickly then felt the pain. A throbbing in my head and a pasty taste in my mouth like sour berries.
Where was I? Horses, the smell of hay, the lumpy ground. The stables. The previous night came back to me in a humiliating flash. Gray Newman. The almost kiss. The drunken walk through the woods. The storm.
I lay back down and groaned. My head had never felt this bad before. Everything around me seemed to be covered in burlap.
This must be what a hangover feels like,
I thought.
And I can’t believe Michelle and Owen just left me here!
I tried sitting up, feeling that awful vertigo again. Water. All I wanted was water. Swaying a little, I stood up, brushed myself off, and walked over to Curry’s stall. He greeted me like he always did, bending his head down to let me rub his muzzle.
“What a crazy night,” I said to him. “Give the girl three wine coolers, and she’s wasted.”
Feeling faint with thirst, I walked to the stable door and pushed it open. It had stopped raining, but the sky was the color of lead and filled with storm clouds. The trees glistened with rainwater. Even though it would have been quicker to head up the main path back to the dorms, the path through Old Campus would be dead this time of morning. I’d be less likely to run into anyone who might witness my walk of shame.
I turned to trudge up the path, my legs feeling like wooden blocks beneath me. The campus looked surreal, like I was viewing it through a kaleidoscope. I unwound my braids and swept my hair into a simple ponytail. It was no longer Halloween, and I didn’t want to look any more ridiculous than I already felt. When I reached the library, I hesitated for a moment and stared up at its façade. It looked strange to me—larger and more ominous, leached of its color.
A woman appeared at the main door. I sighed gratefully when I saw it was only Madame Favier, with her reassuring gray pouf of hair and owl glasses.
“There you are,” she said. “You must be so tired. I’m afraid you’ve had a tedious journey. We expected you yesterday.” She came down the stairs and shook both of my hands like we’d never met before. “Oh, you poor thing, your hands are chilled to the bone. I’m Mrs. Fairfax, of course. Won’t you come inside?”
Mrs. Fairfax? But she was Madame Favier. Was this some kind of joke? She turned around and gestured for me to follow her into the library. “And what do you think of Thornfield?” she said when we got to the main door.
“Thornfield?” I said, staring up at the library’s walls. Madame Favier had clearly lost her marbles.
“It is a pretty place,” she said, “but I fear it will be getting out of order, unless Mr. Rochester should take it into his head to come and reside here permanently. Great houses and fine grounds require the presence of the proprietor.”
“Mr. Rochester?” I repeated, more confused than ever. Where had I heard these lines before? They were so familiar. Familiar because I had just read them a few weeks ago. They were lines from
Jane Eyre
.
“Yes, Mr. Rochester. The owner of Thornfield,” she said. “Did you not know he was called Rochester?”
I was about to laugh—this was all so ridiculous. And then a little girl came running up the hill, stopping by our side. I almost shouted “Anna!” because she looked so much like Gray’s little sister, but her red hair was in ringlets, and she wore an old-fashioned smock dress. She didn’t seem to recognize me.
“Good morning, Miss Adèle,” the false Mrs. Fairfax said. “Come and speak to the lady who is to teach you, and to make you a clever woman some day.” Adèle. Rochester’s French ward in
Jane Eyre
. Things were only getting weirder.
“C’est là ma gouverante?” the girl said, pointing at me—
Are you my governess?
I opened my eyes wide and bit my lip. I was afraid to speak.
“Come on inside,” the woman said. “You are tired.”
I followed her up the stairs in a daze. Was this some elaborate joke the entire school had drummed up to mess with me? Like
Punk’d,
but for awkward sophomores instead of celebrities? Somehow I couldn’t quite see Madame Favier going along with something like that.
Once I stepped inside the library door, my stomach fell out from under me. The interior of the library had been transformed to look like a well-furnished country estate. We were standing in the long hallway that used to be the main floor of the library, now lined with sinister-looking portraits where school banners had once hung. A large bronze lamp dipped from the ceiling, and thick dark drapes covered the windows, making everything look Gothic and sinister. A cold sweat prickled along my neck.
Okay, maybe I was still asleep. After all, this wasn’t the first time I’d felt a blurring of the lines between my dreams and my conscious world. I just had to pinch myself and I’d find myself back in bed, still hungover, but at least not crazy. The thing was, it didn’t feel like a dream. And when I pinched myself, seven times just to make sure, nothing happened.
I followed Madame Favier or Mrs. Fairfax—whatever her name was—through a large kitchen and into a smaller servants’ area, where a woman in a black dress and apron set some breakfast down in front of the little girl. The girl turned to me suddenly and uttered a familiar phrase: “Mademoiselle—Comment appelez-vous?”
What is your name?
Before I could reply “Emma,” some inner force prompted me to say, “Jane Eyre.” I almost laughed when I said it.
“Aire? Bah!” the girl said, then proceeded to prattle on completely in French. I hoped she wasn’t saying anything important, because I was only catching about every fourth word. Mrs. Fairfax made me a cup of tea, which I cradled in my hands and sipped very slowly as I glanced around the place.
Mrs. Fairfax was giving me instructions on tutoring Adèle, and it was almost as if I could predict every word she was going to say. Like we were rehearsing a play, and I’d memorized everyone’s lines, not just my own. And just as I’d naturally given my name as Jane Eyre, the surroundings were feeling more and more familiar as I sat there, memories of the bonfire and Michelle and Gray fading away like the echo of a voice I’d already forgotten.
When we finished our breakfast, Mrs. Fairfax took us to the library where I would be working with Adèle. I stood mute while she went over the procedures for the day. She had a formal way of speaking, and I didn’t want her to think I was uncivilized. “I know you must be awfully tired, Miss Eyre, but perhaps you can occupy Adèle for a short time while I finish my chores, and then I will show you the house.”
I nodded obediently, and she left me alone with the child. For a moment I stared at the girl cluelessly, wondering what on earth to do with her. She looked up at me expectantly. But then, just as before, the answer came to me without any conscious thought.
“Voulez-vous lire avec moi?” I asked, the French rolling off my tongue like I’d been speaking it my whole life. The girl nodded happily, and we chose a few books from the cabinet and sat down on a plush sofa to begin reading. I wasn’t sure how much she understood, but I read to her robotically while my mind wandered.
This has to be a dream,
I thought. Because I felt too comfortable in this skin, like I’d just slipped into someone else’s story.
Wake up,
I told myself.
Wake up!
But nothing around me changed. Adèle sat watching me with a mixture of curiosity and impatience. My voice kept steady, but inside I was freaking out. What if it was worse than a dream? What if I was the one who’d lost her marbles?
Before I finished our final book, Mrs. Fairfax returned as promised to take me on a tour of the house. “House” was too modest a word for the three-story mansion with grand oak stairways and lavish rooms filled with antique furniture and endless hallways. When I ran my finger across a wooden table to make sure it was real, Mrs. Fairfax clicked her tongue.
“You won’t find any dust. The rooms are quite tidy. Though Mr. Rochester’s visits here are rare, they are always sudden and unexpected. I thought it best to keep the rooms in readiness.”
She went on to tell me about her “master,” how he traveled widely and was away much of the time. As she spoke about him, she brought me up to the third story. Here, it was dim and echoey, with narrow corridors and small dark bedrooms that smelled of age and decay.
“Does anyone sleep up here?” I asked.
“No, certainly not. Though if a ghost inhabited Thornfield, this would surely be his haunt.”
I shuddered and followed her up a very steep and narrow staircase into the attic. We ascended a ladder that led through a trapdoor to the roof, so we were now standing out on the battlements, looking out on the whole expanse of the campus. I surveyed the grounds: the lawn, the woods beyond, and the horizon bounded by sky. It was a stunning view. There was just one problem. Aside from the stables, there was not another building in sight. No dorms. No classrooms. No parking lots either. No pathways. No playing fields. Just uninterrupted grass and trees as far as the eye could see.
I had to be dreaming! It was the only explanation that didn’t involve me being committed to the local funny farm. All I had to do was tell myself to wake up, and I’d be released from this incredibly vivid fantasy, right? I shook my head and closed my eyes tightly, but when I opened them, the image before me remained. And, I realized, Mrs. Fairfax had left me alone on the battlements.
Feeling my pulse race, I descended back through the trapdoor and down the ladder, though I could hardly see since my eyes hadn’t adjusted to the dark. When I got back to the long corridor of the third floor, I glanced down at the rows and rows of closed doors and thought, for some reason, of skeletons hidden within.
And then I heard a laugh. An unpleasant, cackling laugh. When I paused to listen, the laughter stopped for an instant, then it began again, louder and more sinister. It seemed to echo in every room of the house.
“Mrs. Fairfax,” I said. “Did you hear that?”
She did not seem alarmed. “One of the servants, very likely. Perhaps Grace Poole. I often hear her laugh. She sews in one of these rooms. Grace!” she called.
A nearby door opened, and a servant came out, a fat woman with weathered features and a tight, grim mouth. I thought I caught a whiff of alcohol on her breath. “Too much noise, Grace,” said Mrs. Fairfax. Grace flared her nostrils and shot me a look that froze my blood, then curtsied to Mrs. Fairfax and returned to her room.
We retraced our steps and found a meal waiting for us in the parlor. It wasn’t until I sat down that I realized how hungry I was. The food was nothing special—boiled potatoes and some rare meat in gravy, but I cleaned my plate. Servants came quietly in and out, clearing dishes and lighting candles. After I’d eaten, I felt a peculiar calm settle over me. I closed my eyes for just a moment and leaned back in my chair.
Mrs. Fairfax said, “You have been traveling all day. You must be tired. Let me show you to your bedroom. I’ve had the room next to mine prepared for you.”
She led me to the second floor and showed me to my room, furnished with a four-poster bed, a dresser and vanity, and a washstand with a water pitcher and basin. After she left me for the evening, I closed the door and fastened the latch.
Finally alone, I sat on the bed and tried to make sense of the day. I wanted to call someone, text someone, e-mail someone, but my cell phone was missing and the house didn’t have electricity, let alone a computer. Did people at Lockwood even realize I was gone? Had Michelle and Owen called the police to organize a search party? Or were they hiding in the next room, laughing their asses off?
The possibilities made my head hurt. Unable to think anymore, I poured some water from the pitcher into my palms and splashed my face, using the collar of my dress to dry off. All I wanted to do was lie down on that bed and fall asleep, surely to wake up in the morning and find myself back in my dorm room. I opened the closet, which was filled with simple dresses, a coat and some shawls, and a few bonnets on the top shelf. Not a T-shirt or pair of sweats in sight. I rustled around until I found a thin white dress that looked like a nightgown and slipped it on, relieved to find that it fit perfectly.
I desperately needed to find a bathroom. Did they even have bathrooms here? I was a little alarmed when I noticed a chamber pot sitting under my bed. I knew what it was for but had no idea how to use it.
Picking up the lit candle by my bed, I opened the door that led into the corridor, now cold and dark as a tomb. I knew Mrs. Fairfax’s room was just next to mine, but there were three other doors off this hallway alone. Maybe one led to the bathroom. I walked past Mrs. Fairfax’s room and tried the next door. Locked. I continued to the end of the corridor and tried another, which was locked as well. On my return trip, I tried the final door, and the latch clicked. A small shaft of light broke into the hallway.
I felt like I was an actor in a horror movie, walking by candlelight through a haunted house. At this point in the movie, the audience would be yelling at the screen, “Don’t go in there! Don’t go in there!” I laughed at my own paranoia and then, almost as if I’d conjured a ghost with my imagination, footsteps pounded overhead.
BOOK: A Breath of Eyre
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