Chapter Ten
That Fuzzy Feeling
The Bliss
The final notes of the song ring out, and my classroom fills with gentle laughter as they make their way toward their next scheduled activity.
The sonorous gong of The Bliss Bell reverberates through the air, its tone both soothing and persistent, signaling that it’s time for me to make my way to the river.
As I step beyond the threshold of the Tiny Soul Center, I walk down the winding cobblestone pathway that leads toward the river’s edge.
I pass bushes heavy with vibrant foliage, their leaves impossibly green despite the lack of sunlight.
Flowers bloom in shades of pink and yellow, each petal perfect and unblemished.
Trees are laden with colorful fruits that dangle on their branches, and although none of the lush growth should thrive in this environment, it flourishes regardless.
There is no denying that it is all beautiful. Everything here possesses its own gentle, pleasant beauty.
The sound of the water flowing over rocks grows louder and more inviting with each step I take. My thoughts drift to fond reflections of today’s activities—the children and their watercolors, painting only cheerful scenes in bright colors, their soft smiles evident as they worked.
Everything is as it should be. As it always is.
Suddenly, my path is obstructed by a hooded figure dressed in dark clothing, which seems out of place in the brightness of The Bliss.
I blink in mild surprise, noting that while dark colors are not forbidden here, I cannot recall ever seeing anyone wear such attire. Black trousers, hooded garment. Even his shoes are black.
He stands directly in my way, as though he has been waiting specifically for my arrival.
“Madeleine Whitcomb.” He speaks my name with confidence, though his tone carries a mix of questioning and declaration, as if he knows the answer yet seeks confirmation nonetheless.
“Yes,” I respond instinctively.
“This way.” His statement arrives immediately, leaving no room for argument. His tone demands compliance of the kind I have not encountered within these walls. It does not feel dangerous, precisely, yet neither does it feel entirely safe. It simply feels firm. Unyielding.
In my confusion, I feel compelled to inform him of the established routine. “I normally stand in this particular part of the river.” I gesture toward my usual spot, where the water flows most gently and the memories arrive easily.
His response is instantaneous. “Well, you know what they say—you can never step foot into the same part of a river twice. We’re using the literal interpretation and moving your remembrance location.”
I find myself momentarily at a loss for words. “Oh, very well then.”
“Whether it will be—very well, that is—remains to be determined.” He tilts his head, and I catch a glimpse of white teeth behind the shadow cast by his hood. “Now then, pick a number between one and ten!”
“I beg your pardon?”
“A number.” His shoulders slump, and he makes an impatient gesture with his hand. I notice a dark marking on the top of his hand—a design in ink possibly. “Think of a number, any number. Between one and ten. Whichever speaks to you.”
“For what purpose?” I inquire, attempting to understand the logic behind his peculiar request.
“Because I asked.”
“But what does the number symbolize? What function does it serve?”
“Numbers are just numbers, Miss Whitcomb.” His tone takes on an edge of something I cannot identify.
Philosophy perhaps. Or mockery. Probably both.
“Humans are the ones who insist on assigning meaning and value to everything they encounter. Some things exist without requiring explanation or justification. Purpose is not a prerequisite for existence, you understand.”
I do not understand, not entirely, yet something in his words strikes a chord.
“But what will the number accomplish?” I press, still seeking comprehension. “What shall occur once I select it?”
“Nothing.” He shrugs beneath his dark garment. “Or perhaps something. Who can say for sure? The beauty lies in the uncertainty itself.”
This conversation feels unusually profound for The Bliss, where everything follows expected patterns and all questions receive clear answers.
A number flashes briefly in my mind, but I don’t voice it aloud. I simply stare at the stranger. His expression brightens, revealing a glimpse of his face beneath the shadow of his hood. His smooth skin and high cheekbones briefly shine against the moonlight.
“Ah, four!” He sounds genuinely pleased. “What a fascinating choice.”
My breath catches. “How did you do that? What does it mean?”
“I have already informed you—quite clearly, I might add.” His tone suggests a hint of amusement. “It signifies absolutely nothing. Still, it’s rather enjoyable, wouldn’t you agree? Now, right this way. Step into a new memory.”
The stranger extends his hand in a gesture that ushers me forward, and I find my feet complying before my mind has fully agreed to. I step into a different section of the river, one I am unfamiliar with, sinking down into the water until it reaches my knees.
The water rushes past my legs, swirling around them with a greater force than I remember. My feet sink into the soft earth beneath the surface, the stones smooth and cool against my soles.
My mind plunges into a memory with an intensity I have never before experienced within these waters.
England, 1862
The gentle creak of the hinge sounds impossibly loud in the silence as I ease the door open with careful precision.
My parents and the house staff have retired for the evening, and I have no desire to wake anyone and invite questions I cannot answer.
Every sound echoes through the darkened halls with alarming clarity.
The gentle rustle of my nightdress, the whisper of my bare feet against the wooden floors.
Even my breathing seems amplified to my anxious ears.
I make my way down the corridor, the sconces mounted along the walls providing barely sufficient illumination to guide my path toward the staff quarters.
My heart hammers against my ribs with such force that I feel certain it must be audible.
The fear of discovery wars with the exhilaration of seeing Thomas, of stealing these few precious moments before tomorrow arrives and separates us once more.
I place my ear to the wood and try to listen, but I cannot hear anything.
Summoning courage I did not know I possessed, I try the handle. The latch gives on a click that seems to reverberate through the entire manor, and I peer cautiously through the narrow opening I have created.
A single candle burns beside the simple bed, but the blanket lies flat, the room unoccupied.
Why isn’t Thomas in his quarters at this late hour? Where could he possibly—
Of course. I know precisely where he must be.
A smile splits my face as I gently slide the door closed again and retrace my steps to the main hall. From there, I turn to the back of the manor and slip outside into the night air.
The moon hangs overhead, providing silvery light across the sprawling estate, illuminating the familiar paths and gardens. Yet I could navigate to the stables with my eyes closed.
My bare feet press against cold earth and damp grass as I hurry forward. A gentle flicker of light dances within the stable’s single window, confirming my suspicion. I approach the wooden structure and force the barn door open just enough to slip my body through the gap.
The soothing sounds of the sleeping horses continue undisturbed as Thomas rushes toward me from the shadows. His expression caught between alarm and something else. Something warmer.
“Madeleine. What are you doing here? It is late.”
“I could ask you the same question, Thomas.”
“There is no place I would rather be than here.”
“No place?” I infuse the words with hope, willing him to hear the question I remain too afraid to voice directly.
“No place I’m allowed to be.”
The distinction cuts, though I comprehend his meaning. We are not permitted to do this. Not permitted to feel what we feel.
“I would never tell a soul,” I promise him. “You must know that.”
“After tomorrow, it will not matter.”
“Do not speak of tomorrow, Thomas. Not tonight, please.” My voice breaks slightly on the last word. “Let us pretend that tomorrow shall never come. That we might remain here, in this moment, forever.”
“You have not answered my question, Maddy.” The nickname softens his tone. “Why are you here? You should be asleep in your room, safe within the manor where you belong.”
“I needed to see you one final time before—” I cannot complete the thought. “I couldn’t sleep. I do not wish for tomorrow to arrive.”
“You cannot stop the passage of time, Maddy. Not even one as clever as yourself possesses such power. You cannot rewrite what fate has already determined.”
“Perhaps not, Thomas.” I step closer to him, drawn like a moth to a flame. “But I know the melody of the song within my heart. I know for whom it sings.”
“What are you speaking of, Maddy?” A slight smile tugs at his lips despite the sadness in his eyes. “You know your poetry has always been lost on my simple ears.”
“Then I shall state it plainly.” I take a breath, steadying myself. “I love you, Thomas.”
“Oh, Maddy.” The words emerge as something between a sigh and a groan.
“Can I state it any plainer than that?”
“Please do not—”
“And tomorrow, I depart for finishing school to learn to become an English lady fit for my allotted station in life.”
“And I, for an apprenticeship that will take me away from you forever.”
“I do not wish to exist anywhere that you are not.”
“Wanting cannot make it so.” His voice carries an ache that mirrors my own. “Wishing remains nothing more than a fantasy with no impact upon reality. You begin your proper life tomorrow. The life you were born to live.”
“Then take me with you. Anywhere. To London. To your apprenticeship. I care not where we go, so long as we go together.”
“That’s not possible, Maddy. You know that.”