Chapter Text
"Flora dear? I have your birthday present here for you! The most wonderful birthday present you could ever dream of."
Papa's smiling now, for the first time in ages. Flora had thought that he would never smile again. The sight makes her want to smile too, but she's hesitant; her face seems frozen in a frown, after so many weeks of crying. What could make him so happy, now that Mama's gone? Whatever it is, could it make her happy again, too?
"What is it?" she asks quietly, clinging to Matthew's arm for dear life.
"It's the most amazing thing," Papa says, pride filling his voice. "You won't believe your eyes. I… I can't believe my eyes. It's…"
"Out with it already," laughs Bruno, his eyes crinkling merrily, moving his arm from where it was wrapped around Papa's shoulder.
"Alright, alright." Papa chuckles. He and Bruno step apart from each other, and Flora finally sees what was behind them.
...Mama?
It looks just like her, but it can't be her, can it? Flora blinks, looking first at Matthew, then at Bruno, and finally at Papa, searching their faces for any sign of trickery, but she can't see any deception in their eyes. Could this truly be her?
Everyone had said that Mama had gone away, that she had fallen asleep forever, and Flora had believed them. Flora talks to the statue that looks like her, sometimes, down in the garden, but it's only a statue, even if it has her eyes, and her beautiful smile. It's frozen, unmoving. But this isn't just a statue. It… she is colourful, and moving, and she's smiling at her, bending down on one knee, holding out her arms. "Flora. Flora darling, it's me."
"Mama?" Flora hears herself say. Slowly, she lets go of Matthew's arm, and hesitantly, she moves towards the lady, one step at a time, until she's inches away from her. The lady's arms enfold her, and Flora slowly lets her cheek fall against the lady's shoulder.
"I'm here, Flora. And I'll never leave you again."
But the embrace is cold; the voice, manufactured and hollow.
It's not real.
Flora gasps, her eyes flying open. Her whole body is trembling, her face sticky with tears. She lies frozen, staring at the wall, trying to stifle the half-gasps, half-sobs that try to escape her. After what seems like an hour, she manages to summon up the energy to sit up, wiping her face, combing her fingers through her tangled hair. She looks at the clock: it's ten in the morning, and yet the sky is still so dark. With a shaky sigh, she stares out of the window. Rain drizzles down, smacking against the windowpane with every wet gust of wind.
She needs to get up.
Flora stumbles out of bed, forcing herself toward the vanity. Mindlessly grabbing a hairbrush, she gazes into the mirror. A flushed face with puffy, red eyes stares back at her. Nobody can see her like this. She frowns, rubbing her eyes with her knuckles, trying to chase away the tears. Her eyes only get redder. Her scowl deepens.
She's being ridiculous. She shouldn't be such a baby, not after all this time. It's been nearly ten years, after all. But maybe that anniversary is why the nightmares have gotten worse lately…
She hasn't been happy in so long. She pretends that she's happy, so that she can make Bruno happy, but she isn't. She can't be. Not without her parents...
Flora blinks, and yanks the hairbrush through her hair, tying it up into a tight ponytail. She should have gotten dressed before doing her hair; as she pulls her dress over her head, her bangs fall out of place—but, well… it doesn't really matter. Nobody will see her, anyway. She's all alone up here. Papa is gone, and so is… so is Mama, and it really doesn't matter if Bruno sees her with messy hair; they've seen each other covered with grease and oil stains a hundred times, when working on the robots in the basement. Of course, if Ingrid saw her like this, she would fuss over Flora, fixing her hair before Flora would have the chance to protest, and so would Matthew (although he'd at least ask for her permission first!). But she doesn't see them anymore. Not since she moved here, all those years ago, to the tower that Papa built for her. They never come to visit her, and Flora doesn't know why. Perhaps they were programmed to never leave the manor, or perhaps they've forgotten all about her.
She wonders if they'd remember her if they saw her.
She could go down to see them if she wanted, if she was brave enough. Papa never said that she had to be up here all of the time (even if that's probably what he wanted her to do). And sometimes she does go down when Bruno isn't looking, exploring the village in her disguise, visiting the restaurants, or talking to Archibald about his memories of her father, or playing with Lucy and Adrea. But she somehow… she somehow can't go back to the house...
A knock sounds on her door.
"Come in," Flora says quickly, rubbing at her eyes one last time, and straightening her hair despite herself.
The door swings open. "How's the birthday girl?"
Oh, Bruno. Even with her dark thoughts still lingering in her mind, Flora giggles, looking over her shoulder. "You know it's tomorrow, right? Or did you forget?"
"I'm only teasing." Bruno laughs, and the familiar sound makes Flora feel a little better. "I just wanted to warn you that you should probably stay indoors today. None of your usual gallivanting about town today, alright?"
"Why? Because of the rain?"
"Well, yes." A shadow crosses Bruno's face suddenly, and Flora watches him closely. He looks her in the eye, then looks away, sighing. "That, and, well… there's strangers near town. Franco spotted them outside of the gates."
A thrill shoots through Flora's stomach. Strangers? New people? Humans?
Nobody was supposed to come here; not until Dahlia sent out the letters—or at least, that's what Flora's deduced. Nobody's fully explained Papa's plan to her; she's only been able to put together little bits and pieces, from what she's heard Bruno say, and from notes scribbled in Papa's old books. All she knows for certain is that she's supposed to stay here, in the village, until somebody comes for her. And yet, somebody's come. She's not sure whether she's scared or thrilled. Who are they? What are they like? Do they have any interesting stories to tell? Are they—
Flora suddenly realizes that Bruno's still here. Blinking, she quickly forces her expression into neutrality, focusing her attention on Bruno.
"It's nothing to worry about," Bruno continues, waving his hands for emphasis. "Dahlia'll take care of them. They'll be gone before you know it. But you should stay here for now, eh? There's plenty of work to do in the basement if you want to help me."
"...Okay," Flora says slowly. "I might come down later."
"I hope you do. I'll see you later."
Bruno leaves the room, closing the door, and Flora sits down on the bed, hugging her knees to her chest.
She just has to see them. She doesn't care what Bruno says, or what Papa's nebulous plan says, or what... what anyone says. Even if Papa and Bruno and everyone want her to stay up here, she has to go down. Reinhold Manor is just as much hers as anyone else's, after all. She was born there; she grew up there. She should greet the visitors, and… and talk to them, and…
But she's scared to.
She's shy, meeting these new people, but she's more than shy; she's also afraid of going back in the house after all these years, and seeing it changed, or unchanged, from her childhood, and she's scared of seeing Ingrid and Matthew worry about her, and of Simon and Uncle Gordon shaking their heads at her, and asking her why she hasn't visited in so long, but most of all, she's frightened of seeing her again.
The lady who looks so much like Mama, who acted so much like Mama, until she changed.
Flora stares out of the window, looking through the thin, misty sheets of rain, and tries to spy the visitors through the fog. Did they come in a car? They must have; there's no other way to get here, unless they walked, which seems unlikely. Maybe they'd let her look at the car. Maybe, if she'd just go down and talk to them.
Flora hugs her knees a bit tighter, letting her head fall against her kneecaps, and tries to gather some courage.
"My lady…"
"Leave me, Matthew." Dahlia doesn't bother looking up, despite the worry in Matthew's voice. Claudia's fur needs brushing, and Dahlia is going to brush it. It doesn't matter how many times Matthew says her name or title in that plaintive way. Nothing is more important than Claudia's grooming routine.
"What if it's urgent, Dahlia?" Gordon's worried voice is quite irritating, but not enough for Dahlia to bother looking up at him. "He has tried to get your attention ten times, now."
"Frankly, his repeated questions are an annoyance." Simon's voice is even more irritating than Gordon's, so out of respect to his achievement, Dahlia spares him a glance. Simon adjusts his glasses, looking down toward Matthew with a disdainful glare that Dahlia's almost proud of (he learned it from the best!) "Matthew, if Dahlia says that she doesn't want to talk to you, then you should take the hint."
"It is urgent." Matthew's eyes look pleadingly towards Gordon.
Can it really be that urgent? Dahlia lets out a sigh, infusing it with as much scorn as possible. If Matthew must interrupt Claudia's brushing, he will at least suffer for it. "What, Matthew, pray tell, could be so urgent that you would interrupt Claudia's brushing routine? You know that I do it at this time every day. My poor baby is so sensitive. I wouldn't want to disrupt her routine for anything in the world!"
Matthew gazes shamefacedly down at the floor. "Outsiders, my lady. Franco told me. Their car is broken down outside of our gates."
Outsiders.
Dahlia freezes, Claudia's brush falling from her hand.
No one is supposed to come here. Not yet.
Augustus told her the plan a thousand times. She has the process memorized; she has a timeline perfectly mapped out. First, she needs to wait until Flora is old enough to leave the village. Then, she is to send out the letters to people she deems worthy, and observe them as they solve the village's secrets. The village is hidden far away from any major city, so nobody should arrive here ahead of time.
But she hasn't sent the letters. She isn't ready. This isn't according to plan.
Dahlia stands, barely noticing Claudia jumping from her lap to the ground. She paces across the room, one step at a time, wringing her hands.
She hasn't found anyone good enough to take care of Flora yet. Oh, of course, she's looked into possible candidates, but nobody is good enough. Nobody. And besides, Flora isn't old enough yet…
She'll be sixteen tomorrow. She's certainly old enough to stop being holed up in that tower. You're simply selfish, wanting to keep her here, when you've barely talked to her for years, when you know she's miserable…
"My lady—"
"What, Matthew?" Dahlia turns on her heel. She's suddenly aware of everyone's eyes fixed upon her, and of Claudia's meowing, of her soft fur brushing against her legs…
(Although she can't feel it, like she could if she was Violet).
Matthew wilts under her gaze. "Should I instruct Franco to let them in? Or should I tell him to send them away?"
Dahlia bites her lip. As much as she's unprepared for any visitors, it would be in poor taste to leave them out in the rain. As the lady of the manor, it's her duty to help travellers in need… isn't it? She's not sure.
She feels so unprepared for anything outside of The Puzzle.
"I'll see them myself," she says firmly. "Matthew, my coat."
Never mind that she hasn't left the house in years. She needs to fulfill her duty.
"Are you sure about this?" asks Gordon weakly as Matthew scurries away. "In this weather? Besides, they're Outsiders, Dahlia."
"And we're nobility." Dahlia shrugs, running a hand through her hair. "We can't tarnish the Reinhold family name by turning them away."
"What family name?" Simon crosses his arms, leaning back on the sofa. "Nobody knows about us, and I'd rather keep it that way. If we don't answer, maybe they'll go away. I thought you liked staying incognito as much as the rest of us, Dahlia."
"Perhaps, but… this might be for the best." Dahlia takes the coat from Matthew, throwing it over her shoulders. "We… we need to think about Flora's future, you know."
Gordon and Simon's expressions grow sober. "I suppose," says Simon uneasily.
"Well, I trust your judgement, Dahlia," Gordon says tiredly, his tone telling Dahlia that he, in fact, does not trust her judgement. "But do be careful. Don't tell them more than you have to."
"You don't need to tell me that, Gordon." Dahlia turns toward the door, but stops. Claudia rubs against her legs, looking up toward her plaintively. Her baby… the thought of leaving her behind, even for a quick trip to the gates and back, fills Dahlia with anxiety. Slowly, she stoops, picking the cat up in her arms. "Take care of her for me, won't you?" she says softly, bending down and depositing Claudia onto Simon's lap.
"If I must," says Simon half-boredly, absently petting Claudia between the ears. "Hurry back, Dahlia."
"I will," says Dahlia, and, before she can change her mind, hurries down the stairs, entering the foyer. The picture of Flora on the wall seems to stare at her, its eyes following her every movement. Dahlia pulls the coat's hood over her head and hurries past it, through Reinhold Manor's huge doorway.
It takes at least five sharp cries of "Ramon!" before the unreliable boatkeeper makes an appearance. Dahlia swallows her annoyance when he finally does appear; she needs to be in a calm state of mind when she talks to the strangers. Of course, that's going to be impossible, but she can at least try to appear in control of herself. "Row. Now," she says sharply, and is pleased when he complies without any smart remarks. Once across the river, she hurries toward the gate, ignoring the gusts of rain, the rivulets of water running down her face and soaking her coat. Undoubtedly, the guests will be in a more wretchedly wet state than she herself is, thus giving her the upper hand in any negotiations against them (or, at least, she hopes so).
The gates are still closed when she arrives, the drawbridge unlowered. "Lower the bridge, Franco," she calls up to the watchtower. Her voice is nearly swallowed by the howling wind, and she shouts the words again, louder this time.
"They haven't chosen the correct crank yet," protests Franco. "I can't lower the bridge 'till it's fixed."
The audacity of that man. Dahlia grits her teeth. "Then tell them to hurry up. There's only three choices, aren't there? It's not that difficult."
"They shouldn't just go blindly guessing," Franco shouts back, but calls something over the top of the gate. After a minute or two, the sound of creaking wood and metal against metal rises above the wind, and the drawbridge begins to lower.
Another bolt of anxiety shoots through Dahlia. As soon as the drawbridge lowers, strangers will enter St. Mystere for the first time in Dahlia's life. Strangers who might take Flora away from here, to a better life. A life that Dahlia can't give her.
The drawbridge hits the ground on the other side of the moat with a muddy smack, and two figures make their way across. They're both wet and shivering, but the posture and stride of both figures has a certain energy that can't be washed away by the rain. As they approach, Dahlia takes note of their appearances: a short, middle-aged man, dapperly dressed with a glint in his eye, and a girl, a few years older and a few centimeters taller than Flora, who keeps her gaze locked steadfastly on the ground. "Welcome," she says smoothly, striding toward them before they have the chance to say anything. "I'm Lady Dahlia, the—"
Somehow, she's reluctant to tell them the name of the village. "—the lady of the manor, and I would be glad to lend you assistance," she finishes, offering them a measured smile.
"We'd appreciate that, if you wouldn't mind," the man says, his voice brash despite his bedraggled appearance, booming over the sound of the rain. He throws up his hands. "Our car's half buried in that river of mud out there that Katia called a road—"
"I'm sorry," the girl says in a half-whisper. "I didn't mean to…"
The man's gaze softens as he turns towards the girl. "Now, don't blame yourself, kid. If it were up to me, we'd have taken the train; cars are so unpredictable. But there's no train track direct to the Crown Petone, unfortunately. Anyway," he says, drawing out the first syllable of the word, "if someone would help us dig it out after the rain's stopped, we'd appreciate it."
"Of course." Dahlia doesn't understand half of the words that just came out of his mouth, but she keeps her placid smile plastered on her face regardless. "Now, won't you come out of the rain? It's quite miserable out, wouldn't you agree?"
"I would. Thanks for the offer. Come on, Katia."
Dahlia turns, and the man follows her, the girl shuffling behind him.
"I'm Fredrich Beluga," the man says suddenly, after Ramon's rowed the trio halfway across the moat. "The Molentary Express fellow." He chuckles. "If you don't know my name, I'm sure you know about my train, at least."
Dahlia doesn't. Or, she didn't, but now she does. "I've certainly heard of it," she says truthfully, her voice measured, her mind filing away every little bit of new information. If he has a train, he's most likely quite rich. He'd certainly be able to care well for Flora with that kind of money. She casts her eye towards the girl, who sits hunched over, her purple hair hanging in her eyes.
Mr. Beluga notices her gaze. "This is my grandniece, Katia. She's just graduated high school, so we're going on a short trip together to celebrate." He laughs again. "She's a little shy."
Dahlia hums to herself. This Katia may be shy, but then again, so is Flora.
(Or is she? Is she only quiet around Dahlia?)
(Is it Dahlia's fault that Flora is quiet?)
Would Flora and Katia get along well? Would Flora be happy to leave with the two of them? Are these two capable of solving the village's secret, of finding the Golden Apple?
As the three of them disembark from Ramon's boat, as they walk down the path to Reinhold Manor, through its doors, up its stairs, Dahlia wonders, lost in her daydreams.
She's so deep in thought that, as she enters the parlour, she doesn't notice the shock on Gordon and Simon's faces, or Claudia's uncharacteristic silence, the cat's eyes fixed on an all-but stranger in the center of the parlour.
"Welcome."
The clear voice pierces through Dahlia's thoughts like a knife. She blinks, unable to believe her eyes.
Flora?
It can't be. She hasn't come to the house in years. For all Dahlia knows, she hasn't left the tower in all of that time either. Dahia half-believed that she would never see her again, until the moment that she left the walls of St. Mystere to begin her new life. But here she is, smiling toward the visitors, extending a hand in welcome, as apparently at home here as if she'd never left the house.
"I'm Flora Reinhold. Welcome to Reinhold Manor."