It was the year 1905
…
And I dare say there shall never be an account so
cryptic as the one I shall now write here in this little notebook.
But let me contain myself and fully
explain my words as well as the hand which holds the writing pen.
I am Emily Smith, or so I believe. I
am not certain as to my true name since I am not even certain who I am now. I
am twenty years of age, yet I remember only three years of my life. The years
before the accident (the accident
which took my parents and my memory) happened when I was seventeen. Whatever
life I lived before then, whoever I was during my childhood … I cannot say.
Dr. Quinley calls my condition … amnesia, or … well,
I think that’s what it’s called in the medical field.
I call it my first death.
Anyhow, I am presently staying at the home of my
good friend, Erin McSpear.
She have kindly taken me in as a sister and comforted
me as much as I ever could be comforted considering what has happened. Erin and I share a house as well as a tutor, for
although she is already twenty-one, she has chosen to commit her time to an
education as she is of yet unmarried.
Since I am illiterate as well, we have both embarked
on an “adventure of words”. Or at least, that’s what she calls it.
At first, I considered learning a distraction from …
what happened, but now I consider it
an outlet to my feelings. I am now able to “write landscapes and form emotions
from letters”, as Mr. Carlyle, our tutor calls it. Such patience he has with us
older illiterate young women struggling with a child’s book!
I never imagined I’d ever be writing words as I am
now, as full of fault and error as they are. During my three years as a laundress
(the only years I remember living), I never needed words. Nor did I want them
while I served as a maid at –
I suddenly realized I have not mentioned the manor
is ever so long! That horrid dark manor where my soul died a second death!
Where I served a master of a heart of evil and a face of … His face!
The writing is shaky now because of the trembling of
my hand, but I must continue, albeit tears douse the words, I shall write. I must.
It is time to overcome the past … the insufferable
past of dark secrets, forbidden rooms, snuffed lights, passionate cries, misty
seas, false romances, and villains in masquerade…
It is time to face Wiltborn.
Wiltborn Manor is a grand castle-like place without,
but within is empty ghostliness. One could see this in the library, for the
books’ pages were blank, and in the galleries, for the frames to hold paintings
held blank canvases, and most empty of all in the manor was the master himself.
Of course it was not always like this. At least not
when Old Master Charles Midroth, the father of the aforementioned master,
lived. Oh, no, it was the gayest of estates in all of England! He kept it to
reflect his own good, kind heart.
But when he passed away, his son sent darkness over
the manor, shadowing his tenants, and drowning me.
Everything wilted and darkened and became a void of
emptiness.
Not literally, but in spirit.
Rarely did the servants of the manor see their
master on the account of his random escapes to travels in distant lands. All
felt pity for him because of rumors concerning a past romance with a girl of fair
hair and lively green eyes. He forbid anyone to speak of it, but he is still
aching for her return. The servants of the manor as well as the tenants on the
estate believed this tragic story which explained his tinted soul, and they
felt great pity for him.
All but one prejudice girl.
Me.
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