Garden of the Fae

Amelia tarried at the threshold of the grand ballroom, her tresses of golden hue gently tousled by the wind, as her emerald eyes took in the grandeur that society had taught her — no, forced upon her — to covet.

Candlelight basked the room in a warm glow, reflecting off the jewels and fine fabrics that adorned the affluent. The ballroom itself, a whirl of colors and laughter, seemed like a scene plucked from a fairytale. Yet, as she stepped into the throng, — her heels clicking softly against polished marble — the air felt stifling, heavy with the scent of beeswax and the heat of too many bodies confined in too small of quarters. 

Her hands, clad in silk, clasped one another in silent concern. The orchestra’s lively music served naught but a relentless command to serve. Maidens, in their youthful bloom, were paraded before eligible bachelors as if they were nothing but prized livestock, their worth appraised by the grace of their steps and the cut of their gowns. Smiles were rehearsed, the conversations scripted — a fastidious dance of social graces where the slightest falter could herald one’s downfall.

In this, Amelia found herself indistinguishable from her peers.

As she numbly moved through the prescribed motions — her sways but a mechanical mimicry of true dancing —her corset bit into her flesh with each breath drawn, a relentless reminder of what her worth had been reduced too. The gentlemen who sought her hand were naught but strangers, their polite masks hiding covetous gazes that lingered too long and smiles that bore on the edge of malice.

She forced a smile. Compose thyself, dear Amelia, she thought to herself. Assimilate gracefully, and conclude the affair posthaste. Be rid of this business. 

Amelia endeavored to blend into the grandeur of the fête, but her efforts were in vain as she fell under the scrutiny of the infamous Lord Whitmore, a man whose wealth was only surpassed by his notoriety. His approach was swift, a predator parting the sea of people with a practiced ease. Amelia's spirits plummeted; she had heard whispered tales of his ungentlemanly pursuits.

"Ah, Miss Amelia, your beauty outshines the brightest star tonight," Lord Whitmore crooned, his voice a velvet trap. His words, though outwardly harmless, dripped with pure possession. 

Amelia offered a tight-lipped smile, the kind expected of her, but her eyes darted for an escape. “Why, my dear sir, you flatter me.”

“Truly a vision in ivory and gold,” he continued, his voice smooth as silk, yet Amelia could sense the underlying hunger in his words. “Tell me, does the night find you well?”

The inquiry was but a mere courtesy, and Amelia recognized it as such. Her reply was equally formal “Good evening, Lord Whitmore. The night is as pleasant as one could hope for, thank you.”

His smile broadened, his advanced years betrayed by the scent of rotting teeth. “I must confess, the splendor of this evening pales in comparison to your radiance. Surely, I am not alone in this sentiment?”

Amelia’s insides coiled in discomfort. “You are too kind, my lord. The gala is indeed a splendid affair.”

“Splendid, yes, but also quite stifling, don’t you think?” Lord Whitmore pressed on, leaning in closer than propriety allowed. The putrid scent of death and decay nearly suffocated her. “A young lady like yourself must feel caged, no?”

Her indignation simmered just beneath her composed exterior. His mock sympathy for the societal shackles that ensnared her was maddening. He might discern the invisible bars of her gilded cage, yet he would remain ignorant of the bruises inflicted by its unyielding grasp, the torment of confinement too narrow for repose, too short to sit. These agonies were beyond his ken.

Amelia responded in a hushed murmur. “It is… our duty, is it not?”

“Tradition can be a cruel jailer.” He drew nearer still. She tensed, wary of provoking the elder gentleman. They were so close that her bosom brushed against the fabric of his suit. “Tell me, Miss Amelia, if you had the choice, would you not wish to fly free?”

The question was a trap, and Amelia knew better than to step into it. “Freedom is a luxury few can afford, my lord.”

“But what if I told you I could offer you that luxury?” His voice softened to a whisper, his gaze lingering upon her with disquieting intensity. “My estates are vast, and my influence… considerable.”

Her cheeks flushed with heat. Though surrounded by the luminous glow of the ballroom,no one paid them any mind. The lord, with his affluent position, was well within his rights to corner her. To ensnare her. In the eyes of the ton, she, a woman, was naught but an asset. A commodity. An economic proposal to be bartered with and sold. 

Amelia’s pulse raced within the confines of her stays. “I am… honored by your proposition, Lord Whitmore, yet…” She could bear this no more. “I must excuse myself. The heat of the room has become quite unbearable.” 

He reached for her hand, his touch presumptuous and unwelcome. She shivered and looked away. “Then allow me to escort you to the gardens, where our conversation can be… more intimate.”

With a swift motion, she withdrew her hand – the very notion of decorum forsaken. “Your offer is most kind, sir, but I prefer solitude in moments such as these.”

A touch of irritation flickered across Lord Whitmore’s features. 

A moment of silence ensued. 

Then another.

Finally: “As it pleases you, Miss Amelia. But do remember, opportunities such as the one I offer seldom come often.”

Nor do they come free, she thought, but did not dare to voice. With nary a further glance at the man before her, Amelia quietly departed for the garden.

A cool evening breeze washed over her as she slipped out a side door. Moonlight filtered through the leaves, casting a luminous glow over everything it touched, turning the garden into a place of ethereal beauty. The flowers—peonies, foxgloves, and bluebells—swayed gently in the breeze, their colors vibrant against the night’s canvas.

She could finally breathe.

Here, absent were the scrutinizing gazes, the whispered voices dissecting her every move. Her fingers brushed along the hedges and topiaries lining the cobblestone path, her steps light, almost as if she were floating. Humming softly to herself, – an eerie lullaby from her youth – she passed by a fountain, its waters still.

The roses that lined the path were in full bloom, their petals perfect and untouched, and yet… their thorns… yes, their thorns were more pronounced in the moonlight, casting long shadows against the cracked stone.. How strange. 

A statue of Aphrodite stood at the garden’s heart, her marble form both alluring and foreboding.While gazing into her eyes, a cold breeze blew past, making Amelia shiver and wrap her arms around her midsection.

Amelia’s gown grazed the lavender and jasmine, releasing a heady perfume that mingled with the earthy scent of the moss-covered stones. She paused, closing her eyes, allowing the silence to envelop her. Yet, the quiet was deceptive, broken only by the distant music from the gala and the occasional hoot of an owl perched high in a cypress tree.

As she proceeded, the path grew less distinct, the cobblestones concealed by ivy and wild flowers. The garden, once meticulously curated, now seemed abandoned to the whims of nature, reclaiming what was once its own.

Ultimately, she arrived at the garden’s edge, where the wilderness began. Here, the moonlight couldn’t penetrate the thick canopy of leaves, and the air grew cooler, heavier. In the distance, a glowworm blinked. She blinked back. 

Amelia’s gaze lingered. The glow evoked memories of the fables her nursemaid once recounted — stories of fey and spirits that frolicked in the woodlands, their lights leading lost travelers astray.

With an indrawn breath, she ventured from the path into the wilderness.The undergrowth was dense, yet she pressed on, the boughs snaring at her gown, as though the forest itself sought to hold her back. But Amelia was determined. Each step took her further from the world she knew, a life of stringent expectations and stifling propriety. The thicket intensified, the sounds of the gala now a mere echo. The forest grew denser, the sounds of the gala now fading into nothing. Amelia’s heart raced.

Before she knew it, she stumbled upon a clearing, where the moon shone brightly, illuminating a small, serene lake. The water was like glass, reflecting the stars above.

Amelia hesitantly approached the water’s brink, her reflection staring back at her — the young woman staring back at her was a stranger, yet familiar. Her cheeks were flushed, and her tresses, typically arranged in an intricate coiffure, now tumbled in loose curls about her shoulders, framing her face with an untamed grace.

Her gown, a confection of silk and lace, shimmered like the surface of the pool, its color shifting with the moon’s phases. It was designed to be the pinnacle of fashion, to showcase status and wealth, but here, in the solitude of the garden, it was just a dress, beautiful in its simplicity.

For an instant, Amelia was spellbound by her own likeness, seeing herself not as the debutante of the season, but as a creature of the night, belonging to the forest itself. She leaned down, dipping her fingers into the cool water, the ripples distorting her image.

Silently, subconsciously, she made a wish. 

In the ripples, her reflection began to blur, the edges wavering. The moonlight, once a gentle caress, now seemed to distort the image in a cruel manner. Her likeness’s grin widened excessively, the corners of its mouth stretching unnaturally towards the ears, and its eyes — those portals to the soul — enlarged, darkened, and became profoundly disconcerting. The air around her grew colder, the scent of the flowers turning sickly sweet, almost rotten.

Her hand raised to her mouth in concern. Surely, that wasn’t what she looked like?

As she stood petrified, the reflection’s limbs, elongated and pallid, extended forth. They moved with a stilted, unnatural motion, as if manipulated by invisible marionettes. The digits, slender and arachnid-like, summoned Amelia nearer, and ere she could respond, they erupted from the water’s surface, the pool’s face rippling tumultuously as cold, otherworldly fingers clasped Amelia’s neck with a vice-like grip.

Her breath hitched, a scream trapped in her lungs as she was forcefully drawn forward. Her arms flailed fruitlessly to find futile purchase in the air as the reflection pulled her closer to the water’s surface. With a splash, the frigid liquid enveloped her with the cold grasp of a tomb. 

The icy tendrils of the water dragged her down…

deeper… 

deeper… 

The obscurity was all-encompassing. 

There was naught but a glimpse of life.

The water swallowed Amelia’s last bubbles of air, leaving no trace of her passage but the disturbed petals atop the water’s surface.

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Abigail was ready to get fucking wasted and aint nobody was gonna stop her!

Decked out in an insanely comfortable empire-waist gown and a matching feathered bonnet (and sneakers. Not everything can be historically accurate), she hustled through the bustling fair. 

She was on, like, what? Her third shot of the night? And she aint even starting to feel that buzz, man. 

"Yo, barkeep!" she hollered over the din, slamming her hand down on the polished wood of the makeshift bar. "Hit me with your best shot!"

The barkeep, a dude with mutton chops so authentic you'd swear he time-traveled here, raised an eyebrow but nodded. "One 'Duke’s Downfall' coming up,"

Heh heh, fuck yeah. Abigail thought as he turned to mix something that smelled suspiciously like it could strip paint.

The drink was a hit—a fiery cascade down her throat, a warm glow in her belly, and finally, *finally*, the buzz she'd been chasing all night. She threw her head back and laughed, the sound mingling with the lute and fiddle playing in the background. 

"Another!" She threw the shot glass on the ground, the glass shattering against the concrete, ready to ride the wave of euphoria until dawn—or at least until the fair closed.

Nestled in expansive gardens was the fair’s chosen estate, seemingly plucked from the pages of a Jane Austen tale. Here, Abigail twirled among the stalls, her gown billowing with each turn. The gardens had been magically transformed, with lanterns illuminating winding paths and secluded nooks, inviting intimate escapes from the festivities. Statues emerged from the greenery, and the cheerful bubbling of an old stone fountain made the atmosphere downright magical.

Welcoming guests through its grand doors sat the ballroom, the very beating heart of the fair. A polished wooden floor beckoned dancers, while musicians perched in a gallery above, their lively melodies floating down to mingle with the sounds of laughter and conversation. Rich draperies framed the windows, and the scent of fresh flowers in porcelain vases wafted through the air.

Suddenly, and without warning, a hand grabbed Abigails own, pulling her into the throws of the dance. 

Abigail’s heart skipped a beat as she was whisked away into the throng of dancers. The gentleman who had taken her hand wore a dashing tailcoat and a roguish grin that promised mischief. His eyes sparkled with the same wild delight that now bubbled up inside her.

The music swelled, a lively jig that set the entire ballroom alight with energy. Abigail found herself caught in a whirlwind of movement, passed from partner to partner as the dance dictated. Each gentleman’s hand was a brief anchor before she was sent spinning into the next embrace.

With each step and turn, Abigail felt the layers of her everyday life peel away. Here, in the swirl of the dance, she was no longer just another face in the crowd; she was a dazzling debutante, the belle of the ball, her laughter ringing out like a challenge to the night. 

As the tempo increased, so did the fervor of the dancers. Abigail’s heart raced with exhilaration, her feet barely touching the ground as she was swept along by the dance.The room spun around her, a kaleidoscope of color and sound. The lanterns blurred into streaks of gold as they moved, and the air was thick with the scent of spiced wine and roses.

The musicians played with a fervor that matched the dancers’, their notes climbing higher and higher, urging the revelers on. Abigail’s laughter mingled with the strains of the violin and the beat of the drum, a symphony of sound that echoed through the grand estate. The dance was a living thing, pulsing and alive, and she was its heartbeat.

Until it wasn’t.

Abigail’s body smacked into something freezing cold. With a startling smack, she found herself face-to-face with some blonde chic who had been standing just a bit too close to the lively dance floor. The impact sent a shockwave through the crowd, and for a moment, the music seemed to falter.

“Dude, watch where you’re–” Abigail's voice trailed off.

The girl stood – for she was no more than a girl, not possibly older than 16 – frozen, looking as pale and horrifying as a ghost.  

This was a 21+ plus event. How’d this little shit get in here?

Not only that, but the kid was drenched. Her gown, once likely a beautiful pastiche of lace and silk, now clung to her frame, the fabric saturated and heavy, pulling at her shoulders. Strands of her hair were now plastered to her forehead and cheeks. Her wide eyes, rimmed with the remnants of what must have been meticulously applied makeup, scanned the ballroom in what could only be described as pure horror.

Abigail scowled. “The fuck happened to you?”

Wide blue eyes darted to meet Abigails. When the girl spoke, her voice quivered.

“What are you doing in my house?”