//CLARA//
The fog in my head shattered in an instant, leaving behind a jagged, pulsing ache that felt like a massive hangover from club hopping.
I scanned the room, my eyes frantic.
I was looking for a light switch, a misplaced charging port, or a rogue piece of IKEA furniture.
Anything that signaled a hidden production crew.
But there was nothing. Just heavy, dust-collecting velvet curtains the color of dried blood and the flickering, low-res glow of actual beeswax candles. There wasn't a single LED in sight.
"Okay, hilarious," I muttered.
Still, not used to my weird voice, like I have swallowed a ballon of helium. I swallowed hard, trying to find my New York rasp.
"Brilliant! I almost fell for it. Truly."
A hysterical laugh bubbled in my throat as I pushed myself up. The rough linen of the nightdress scratched at my collarbone, the fabric feeling heavy and archaic.
"Very funny, Mom! You really went all out. Did you hire a production crew from the History Channel? Is there a camera in that creepy mahogany wardrobe?"
I waited for the 'Gotcha!' moment. I waited for my mother with Lola to burst through the door with their phones out, laughing about how they'd finally humbled me for TikTok.
The man—Casimir—simply watched me.
He didn't break character. Not even a smirk. His gray eyes were far too convincing, even felt way too high-budget for a prank. He looked at me as if I were a puzzle box he was tempted to smash open just to see how the gears worked.
"I can see that you are still in distress," he stated flatly. His voice was like velvet over gravel. "The events of the day have been… taxing."
"Taxing?" I scrambled to my feet, swaying as the blood rushed from my head.
The room felt suffocating. It was thick with the carbon dioxide of a dozen flickering candles and the heavy, sweet scent of gas lamps. I needed oxygen. I needed to find a bored production assistant holding a clipboard.
I stumbled toward the French doors at the far end of the room, my legs feeling like they belonged to a newborn giraffe.
"Try a twelve-hour economy flight in the middle seat, buddy! That's taxing. This? This is mental abuse!" I fumbled with the heavy brass latch. "My mother has clearly lost it! I want to talk to her right now! And I want my phone back!"
Casimir tracked my every move, his body tensed as if he expected me to bolt.
"Eleanor, stop."
His voice cut through my rant with the weight of a gavel. It dropped into a register of haunting gravity that made the hair on my arms stand up.
"Your mother is dead."
I ignored him, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I shoved the doors open and stumbled out onto a vast, flat rooftop terrace.
The view stole the air from my lungs.
No…Am I really inside the diary?
Below me lay a sprawling, gas-lit metropolis. Orderly, tree-lined avenues stretched out under a blanket of night, illuminated by the flickering, amber dots of streetlamps. The air didn't smell like salt or exhaust. It smelled of coal smoke, damp earth, and horse manure.
The skyline was a jagged silhouette of spires, gables, and clock towers etched against a sky so clear it looked fake. There were no red blinking lights from passing planes. No blue glow of skyscrapers.
Instead, I could see the Milky Way spilling across the heavens in the total absence of light pollution.
It's real…
I turned slowly, my back to the impossible city. The man stood in the doorway, framed by the warm, amber glow of the bedroom. He looked like he belonged there.
"The air is cold, Eleanor," he coaxed, his hand beckoning me back.
A choked, ragged sound tore from my throat. I wasn't in a prank. I was trapped in someone else's skin, living a ghost's life.
He moved then, closing the distance between us until he was only a breath away. The sheer gravity of his presence was a physical force, a magnetic pull that made my knees wobble.
As the truth started to sink in, crushing my ability to stand, I felt myself slipping. Before I could hit the cold stone of the terrace, his arms were there. He caught me by the waist and hauled me upward so abruptly that my breath hitched. My entire weight relied solely on the strength of the arm he had wrapped around me.
"Easy now," he murmured into my hair. His voice suddenly vibrated with a tenderness that caught me off guard, melting my fight into mush.
My body was pressed completely against his broad chest. Through the heavy wool of his frock coat, I could feel the solid heat of him, the rhythmic thud of a heart that was definitely real.
I looked up, my vision blurring. My fingertips brushed the hard, cold line of his cheekbone, then trailed, feather-light, down the tense plane of his jaw.
He went utterly still. A statue coming to life under my touch.
I felt the muscle in his jaw leap, a frantic ticking beneath my fingers. He looked like a man who wanted to pull back but couldn't bring himself to break the contact. He smelled of sandalwood, expensive tobacco, and clean linen.
"Are you really… Casimir?" I whispered.
His arm tightened almost imperceptibly around my waist, his gaze dropping to my parted lips for a searing, breathless instant before lifting again, filled with a conflict that mirrored my own.
"I'll have the physician to check on you tomorrow," he said, his voice rough around the edges. "You are still unwell."
The hunger from the diary pages was no longer just ink. It was tangible. It was the heat between our bodies.
But I was too terrified to give in.
"Yes, unwell." I forced my feet to find the ground. I withdrew from his embrace, shivering as the cold wind whipped past my thin nightgown. "And a little peachy. This is just… a lot for a prank. The method acting is… dedicated. What agency are you with? CAA? WME?"
Casimir didn't react. He simply stared at me in the moonlight, his expression unreadable.
"A prank," he repeated.
He studied the word as if tasting its absurdity.
"I had prayed, in some foolish, secret corner of my soul, that this was merely another of your parents' extravagant whims. A ludicrous charade, and that they would walk through that door at any moment, laughing at the grim jest."
He lifted a hand, slowly, and his thumb brushed over my cheek. He was wiping away a tear I didn't even know had fallen.
"The night air is no place for a lady in your condition, Eleanor. You will come inside at once."
It was a voice of cold command.
And in that moment, I had no fight left. Wordlessly, shivering, I turned and walked back into the opulent bedroom. He followed, closing the French doors behind us with a definitive click.
He paused, looking at me from across the room. The flickering candlelight cast long, jagged shadows across his face.
"Rest," he finally said. "We shall revisit this conversation in the morning, when you have reclaimed your composure and your thoughts are... coherent."
With that, he withdrew, the heavy mahogany door shutting with a thud. I stood in the center of the room, listening to a silence so deafening it made my ears ring.
I really was Eleanor Thorne. It really was 1879.
"Oh, great-grandma," I whispered, clutching the fabric of my nightgown. "Of all the people in our bloodline, why did it have to be me?"