Chapter 35
Two hours passed before Harper realized how long she had been wandering in and out of doorways.
She hadn’t even left her immediate hallway; her mind reeled with the realization of how vast this place really was.
Immediately next to her bedroom, Harper had found what appeared to be a historically preserved playroom.
Antique rocking horses, cribs that looked straight from a museum, and porcelain dolls with their eerily painted, never-blinking eyes stared at her from embedded shelves that lined the wall.
A row of antique children’s primers was displayed, as well as wooden carved alphabet blocks.
Harper was afraid to touch anything, and she walked in circles, feeling as though she had entered a time capsule.
The room next to the playroom was also preserved but had a melancholy air.
It was a narrow bedroom with a small en suite bathroom that consisted of a claw-foot tub and pedestal sink, no mirror, and no adornments.
The bed was a simple, single wood frame.
The only other furniture was a small, stout wooden desk with matching chair that looked out a small window over the back end of the estate.
A wooden wardrobe that was at least a quarter the size of the one in Harper’s bedroom was wedged into a corner.
To her surprise, she found a small brass plaque on the wall that read:
NURSEMAID’S QUARTERS
It was in the next room where Harper felt time stop.
She opened double wooden doors to find a children’s nursery.
Three wooden single-frame beds lined the walls.
One had intricate interlocking blue flowers carved into the simple headboard, another the same flowers in yellow.
The third had a pattern of bells and bows weaving their way through the wood.
A picture window overlooked the front of the manor, the window seat lined with faded brocade pillows.
An antique crib sat next to a pram, the wheels rusted from disuse.
The center of the room held a circular rug, green and blue vines spinning their way across the space.
A large, wooden rocking chair sat squarely in the center.
It was the rocking chair that made Harper stagger back into the wall.
She was instantly transported to the room as it was in her mind, the lights darkened, a single oil lamp casting shadows on the walls.
The three beds held sleeping figures, their faces obscured by elaborately designed quilts.
Harper crossed to the rocking chair and without awareness sat down, still caught in a waking dream.
In her arms, she felt the weight of an infant, the sweet smell of soap and sleep overwhelming her.
She rocked back and forth, her dream-self in a deep and peaceful state.
A child shifted in the bed with the bells and bows; Harper watched the movement and pulled the infant closer to her, and heard a satisfied gurgle from the bundle.
Out the large picture window, she could see the moon, full now, it hung in the sky illuminating the space.
The illusion broke and Harper found herself gasping for air on the floor next to the chair.
It was day, the beds were historic relics that hadn’t housed occupants for decades; for the excellent upkeep of the space, it felt unused, empty.
Harper pulled herself to her feet, her arm where the phantom bruise appeared aching suddenly.
She pulled her sleeve up to see the mark was now dark purples and bright yellows and oranges, the lash outline still evident.
It was going to be there for a while from the look at the color pattern.
Harper took another look around the room and backed up to the door, afraid to take her eyes off the space lest it change again.
In the hallway, she slumped against the wall and took a deep breath.
The vision of the nursery was as clear as her dreams, more so.
She was the same person there as she was in her dreams, in the simple home with a slumbering infant, the cookhouse, or the ship and the hell that existed belowdeck.
The marks that blossomed on her arm had once adorned her dream-self, only more and in greater intensity.
Harper remembered this house because she had been here before, had lived here; she had been rescued from a terrible fate and found herself here.
Her dream was part of Bell Manor’s history.