Eleanor
August 25th, 2025
The first light of dawn touched the spire of Derby Cathedral with gentle reverence. A veil of silver-white mist drifted over the wide lawn and the old gravestones that lined the ancient cemetery beside the church. The crooked shadow of an iron cross stretched across a stone so cold, it felt as if time itself had frozen since the last century.
Somewhere far off, a cuckoo called from the high branches of an old oak, its limbs bowed protectively over the graves below. The scent of dew-soaked grass mingled with the damp, mineral tang of ancient stone—a fragrance woven with the secrets and sorrows of unspoken history.
My mother and I searched the graveyard for his name, moving from row to row beneath the drifting mist, but nowhere did we find it. Four or five of the stones had their inscriptions washed away by centuries of rain, leaving the names utterly lost to time and making our search that much harder. Still, I was determined not to give up. I carefully marked the locations of these nameless graves in my notebook, planning to seek permission for an official excavation in the future.
We were just preparing to move on to Edensor when a sudden impulse struck me, compelling me to turn the car around. My mother looked at me in confusion but didn't object. I needed to do something before we left this place.
Inside the cathedral, I was struck by how well its Victorian character had been preserved. Some things had been renovated or restored, no doubt, but the sense of age—of sacredness and continuity—was overwhelming. I made my way to the statue of Christ. Where once there had been a wooden crucifix, now stood a glazed ceramic figure, perhaps a result of recent restoration. I sank to my knees at the very pew where I used to pray so often in another life, memories from the final moments of that existence rising unbidden in my mind.
The stone floor at my feet was the very place where Lady Eleanor had died in the vicar's arms that fateful night. I glanced at my mother, who sat silently beside me, lost in her own prayers, then closed my eyes to whisper my own.
Dear Lord, I have come back to You again today—first to offer my thanks for Your mercy, and then to ask one more favor. Please, help me find his grave soon.
"Here so early? I saw you both searching the cemetery. Are you looking for something in particular?"
The voice of a young man startled us. My mother and I stood, brushing the dust from our knees, and turned to face the stranger. For a moment, my breath caught—he looked uncannily like Vicar Michael, only this priest's hair was a deep brown, not golden blond.
"Good morning, Vicar," my mother answered first, recovering her composure. "We're searching for the grave of a Victorian nobleman. We're archaeologists from Cambridge, researching the era of Queen Victoria."
She nudged me, drawing me out of my stunned silence.
"Y-yes, that's right," I stammered.
"In that case," he said kindly, "you should apply for official permission with the church before conducting any search."
"We're just surveying for now, but we'll be submitting the paperwork soon," I replied.
He nodded. "That's good. If you need anything, don't hesitate to ask. My name is Nathaniel Reed—I'm the resident vicar here."
"This is my daughter, Eleanor Hastings. I'm Mila Hastings. Pleased to meet you," my mother said.
"Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Hastings," he replied with a respectful dip of his head, then turned to me. "And you as well, Miss Hastings."
There was something in his gaze—a flicker of knowing, or perhaps just my imagination—that made me wonder if he was connected to Vicar Michael in ways I could not explain.
"If you'll excuse me, I have duties to attend to," he said, preparing to leave.
But I couldn't help myself. "Wait—Vicar Reed, have you been here long?"
He paused. "Yes, I was born and raised here. I've served as vicar since my ordination."
He smiled at me, warm and open.
"Would you be willing to help us look for a particular grave?" I asked.
"Of course. Who are you looking for?"
"Alexander Cavendish," I said, feeling my heart flutter.
"Ah… a member of the Cavendish family. Have you checked St. Peter's in Edensor? Most of the Cavendishes are buried there. If you're wondering about this cemetery, I'm afraid I haven't seen that name in our registers. But there are several unmarked graves here that have never been properly identified or excavated."
"Thank you. We'll be applying for permission from Cambridge as well. We were planning to go to St. Peter's next," I said.
He nodded. "I'm happy to assist you in any way I can."
I couldn't help but feel a pang of disappointment. I'd hoped he might have been buried here, since this cathedral was so significant to Lord Alexander's story. But perhaps, after all, St. Peter's held the answer.
As we prepared to leave, Vicar Reed called after us, stopping me in my tracks with words eerily reminiscent of Vicar Michael.
"I believe the Lord will answer your prayer."
He stood there, hands folded behind his back, smiling gently as we went on our way.
We drove north to Edensor, a small town not far from Bakewell and only three minutes from Chatsworth House. I had planned this as our last stop, since it would be easiest to return to our hotel afterward.
We went straight to the grave of William Cavendish, sixth Duke of Devonshire. His headstone—dark granite—stood amid boxwood shrubs and a tangle of wildflowers. The shadow of an iron cross fell across its face, swaying gently in the afternoon breeze as if waving farewell to the world of the living.
The inscription was deeply carved, though time had softened the edges of the Victorian filigree around it. Still, the main text was perfectly legible:
Here rests William Cavendish, Sixth Duke of Devonshire. Born May 21, 1790. Died January 18, 1858.
I searched every inch for Lord Alexander's name, but there was nothing. If he was buried with his brother, there was only one way to know for sure—an official excavation, which would be a formidable task given the status of the grave.
I checked all the unmarked graves nearby, but none seemed likely—they all looked to belong to ordinary townsfolk, not a nobleman. I consulted the vicar of St. Peter's, who confirmed what Vicar Reed had told me: the Cavendish family members were indeed buried here, but there was no record of any Duke named Alexander Cavendish.
Did he die in the woods, then?
That left only the last, saddest possibility—he perished alone in the forest, as Thomas had told me. If so, there would be no grave to find. Not ever.
21:03
After we returned to the hotel, I began sorting through the documents needed to submit my excavation request to Cambridge University, as an archaeologist from there. I also had to email Mr. Thomas to ask for his help negotiating permission from the Duke.
I sat working at the desk at the foot of my bed, while my mother sat quietly on the bed, reading and preparing to sleep. Letters and documents, along with my laptop, were scattered across the wide desk. The journey to finding him felt impossibly far. The article I had been writing was nearly finished; I had found evidence confirming his existence, using a family tree as my main proof. Without delay, I sent a draft of the article and this evidence to Caitlin for consideration in next month's issue.
More than an hour passed. The accumulated fatigue from working nonstop since the evening dulled my mind. I kept slapping my cheeks to stay awake every time I started nodding off. Glancing at my mother, I saw she had already fallen asleep with the book in her hands. Deciding it was time for me to rest, I gently shifted her into a comfortable position, tucked her in, and placed her book and glasses on the bedside table. Then I showered and got ready for bed.
Despite my efforts, my thoughts and unfinished work raced through my mind, making it impossible to sleep. Still, I forced myself to try, knowing otherwise I wouldn't be able to work efficiently the next day. I squinted through the window at the stone manor, my heart wandering to thoughts of the one man I yearned for. All I could do was search for evidence of his existence; there would never again be a chance to see him alive. Slowly, I closed my eyes, quietly calling out to his spirit:
"I know you are here. If you can hear me, please, come to me."
That was my last thought before drifting off.
"You have come back to me."
A voice, like a whisper on the wind, roused me from sleep. I glanced at the clock on my bedside table, half-asleep; it was midnight—not much time had passed.
"Eleanor."
Someone was calling my name from the void, the voice echoing in my ears. I got up and scanned the room, but no one was there.
"My Eleanor."
The voice called my name again, this time clearly—a low, lingering male voice echoing from somewhere distant, though I couldn't tell if it was inside or outside. Grabbing my phone, I stepped out onto the balcony to see if anyone was there, but there was nothing—only darkness, the hotel grounds devoid of any lights except for the thousands of stars shimmering in the night sky, each one beckoning to be admired.
"My beloved."
The gentle voice called a fourth time, this time from the direction of the manor. I couldn't tell exactly where it came from, but as I strained to listen, I caught sight of a tiny golden light, like a firefly, drifting across the gravel path toward the manor entrance.
There it is!
My subconscious urged me to follow that light. It was a familiar golden glow, always appearing with a single purpose:
To guide me to what my heart desires.
I quickly threw on my warm coat, slipped on a pair of boots, and left my room. The hallway was dimly lit by soft yellow lamps lining both sides, guiding me down to the lobby.
At this hour, the hotel was quiet, though a few guests were still awake. I stepped out through the lobby, out to where I'd seen the light, turning on my phone's flashlight to scan my surroundings. The voice was gone.
My heart sank at not finding what I sought, but then, the golden light appeared again ahead, as if waiting for me.
That little miracle butterfly—it's fluttering through the cold night air, leading the way toward the forest behind the manor.
I knew well how dangerous it was to venture out alone at night, especially without telling my mother. If anything happened to me, she would be devastated. But this was an opportunity I had to take. I decided to follow the little butterfly into the woods, moving along a path lined with thick branches, some snagging and tearing at my skirt.
It kept flying, deeper and deeper, until I started to worry I'd lose my way. But by then, it was too late to turn back. Eventually, the little butterfly settled on a large oak tree.
I looked up, shining my phone's light to see the scene clearly. Suddenly, astonishment overtook me.
"This is the tree Lord Alexander once brought me to," I murmured.
Yes, it was unmistakably the same tree. The little butterfly circled it in a ring.
This must be where he is buried.
My subconscious replied without hesitation. I hurried around the tree, searching for his grave marker, using a branch with three prongs to sweep away the leaves. Its roots wound deeply and thickly into the earth, making the search even more difficult in the darkness.
After about fifteen minutes, exhausted, I placed my slender hand against the trunk, leaning my forehead against the rough bark, closing my eyes, and whispered a prayer:
"Are you here, my love?"
A gentle breeze soon sent leaves swirling around me.
"Yes, I am here. I have waited for you for decades. At last, you have returned to me."
The words brought tears pouring from my heart. I turned to look at the figure behind me, already knowing who he was.
"Lord Alexander…"
His form was translucent, a spirit among the forest.
"At last, we meet again," he said, with a gentle smile and a loving gaze, as if he had finally recovered his lost treasure.
I reached out to touch him, but my hand passed straight through.
"This body has no substance. Even if I wished you could touch me, it cannot be done. I am dead, Eleanor. I am now only a wandering spirit, waiting for your return."
"Why do you say that? You were the one who left me, weren't you?"
His face twisted with pain, his eyes showing deep sorrow.
"I know. There was much I never told you. And I, too, was deceived into misunderstanding you."
"What do you mean?"
Tears continued to stream down my face. Lord Alexander lifted his hand, trying to caress my cheek. Though I could not feel his touch, I felt warmth in my heart—a longing I thought would never be fulfilled, now restored in this moment.
"I wish I could wipe away these tears that I caused, Eleanor. I wish I could hold you again."
He did not answer my question, only expressing his yearning for me. Then, he stepped forward and embraced me to his chest. Though I could not feel him physically, the warmth he radiated was tangible without flesh.
"The reason I left you then was not because I ceased to love you, as the lie claimed about breaking off our engagement. I was deceived, and now I will show you everything from my side."
A brilliant light radiated from his body, drawing me into a dimension of blinding white. Suddenly, we were in a drawing room of a house I'd never seen before, perhaps from that era. This time, my form was as translucent as his, standing side by side, observing the scene like we had done in Dorothea's memories. We were only witnesses from the future.
Two men entered: Lord Alexander and a servant I did not recognize. Lord Alexander's face was tense.
"Do you wish me to turn away the lady, your grace?"
"Turn her away. I do not wish to see anyone right now. Tell my sister to return to London—it's too dangerous for her to be visiting at such an inappropriate time."
"I will not leave, your grace. I must speak with you and make you understand."
Suddenly, Lady Harriet burst into the room with three attendants.
"You should not force your way in like this," Lord Alexander said, looking shocked and displeased by her lack of respect.
"I need to speak with you personally. I know what happened to Lady Eleanor, and I refuse to stand idly by. You are the last heir of our line; I will not let it fall into another's hands."
"Sister, it's too dangerous here. Why must we speak now?" Lord Alexander remained unwilling and tried to send her away.
"I happened to be in the area. I know how dangerous it is, and that you are taking great risks to continue working here. I have asked my husband to petition for your task to be revoked." She declared boldly.
"Sister, what do you mean by this? Why do you take such liberty? I am the Duke of Devonshire—do not overstep your bounds!" Lord Alexander shouted, his anger unlike anything I had ever seen from him.
She bowed in apology, though she was equally serious about her actions.
"Forgive me for acting above you, but I cannot bear to lose another of our family. Lord Leveson-Gower has an audience with Her Majesty soon. I simply asked him to raise your case for reconsideration."
"I will fulfill my duty and then withdraw. I, too, have someone I wish to return to. Please, do not meddle in my personal affairs."
"If you mean Lady Eleanor, I have already asked the Queen to annul your engagement."
"Sister!" Lord Alexander's face flushed with anger.
"Before you hate me, please hear me out. You sent a letter cancelling the wedding, clearly stating that she is bedridden. It is evident that she is dying, just like her older sister. So I have asked Her Majesty to consider a new, more suitable fiancée. Lady Beatrice, my niece, is the most fitting candidate. She deserves to be Duchess at your side, and surely you do not love Lady Beatrice. If you must have an heir with her, that will be no trouble."
"No. I have no intention of breaking off my engagement to Eleanor. Do not overstep your bounds again, even by order of the Queen—I will not comply!"
"Her Majesty did not order you to break off the engagement. She only agreed to my suggestion, and if you consent, she will grant you a new royal wedding."
"Leave, sister. You already know my answer!"
She turned away, haughty, casting a look over her shoulder as she left:
"I'll be waiting here for your new answer. In two days, I will return for it." And with that, she swept out, leaving Lord Alexander seething with frustration.
The scene shifted again. Now, Lord Alexander was working late into the dawn, compiling documents. The same servant entered, holding two letters.
He opened the first—presumably the letter I had sent the day I discovered the conditions for breaking the curse, the letter where I lied and concealed the truth. For a moment, his face brightened at my reply, though stress still weighed heavily upon him. He hadn't rested since the previous day.
When he opened the second letter, his face turned furious. He slammed his fist on the table and buried his face in his hands, defeated.
"That letter said you had discovered the way to break the curse, but you didn't tell me the truth because you feared losing me. Theodore wrote that letter on your behalf, reporting that the only way to save you from the curse was to return to its origin—meaning, I had to make you stop loving me."
Lord Alexander, standing beside me, explained the vision.
"But that wasn't true!" I protested, pleading with him to understand and wondering why Sir Wycliffe would lie.
"I know it was a lie, but only after it was too late. Theodore did it to protect me and the Cavendish family. He didn't want me to know that the only way to save your life was for me to sacrifice my own and everything I had."
So, that was why he acted as if he no longer loved me.
"When did you learn the truth?"
He didn't answer, only looked back at the scene. The memory shifted again. This time, we were in a bedroom at Chatsworth, just after the wedding ceremony. Both Lord Alexander and Lady Beatrice were still dressed in the white garments of bride and groom, as if this was right after they had been sent to their chamber.
"You cannot leave me alone. I am your Duchess. Why will you not grant me your affection?" Lady Beatrice demanded, trying to cling to Lord Alexander from behind and stop him from leaving.
"Let me go," he replied, his voice icy cold, offering no explanation.
"No. Am I not beautiful to you? Why did you kiss me yesterday if you have no desire for me?"
"There is no need for me to explain anything. I have more important matters to attend to. The wedding night is not my concern right now."
"Then lie here and let me serve you," she insisted.
"What I just said clearly went in one ear and out the other, didn't it? Let me go. Now." Still, she clung to him, but Lord Alexander shook her off.
Creak! Bang!
But suddenly, the bedroom was abruptly invaded. The woman who burst in was Lilian, her face stricken with panic, followed closely by two servants trying to drag her out. Yet Lilian struggled and fought desperately, determined to speak with Lord Alexander.
"Your Grace, I have an urgent matter to report!" she cried in distress.
"What on earth is going on?" shrieked Lady Beatrice, aghast at the sight of a servant barging into the bedroom.
Before long, Sir Wycliffe also entered and ordered the servants to remove Lilian from the room at once.
"Wait. Let her go," Lord Alexander commanded.
Lilian immediately fell to her knees, breathless and exhausted from resisting. She looked up, wringing her hands, and pleaded frantically with sweat pouring down her face.
"My lady has disappeared, sir—she's gone! Please help me, please!" She broke down, sobbing with sorrow at my disappearance without any farewell.
'In such a weakened state, I would never have survived if I'd run off alone,' she thought at that moment.
Lord Alexander raised his voice in shock, his eyes wide, losing the composure he always maintained.
"How could you let her disappear?" he shouted, turning to order Sir Wycliffe to start the search for me at once.
"Gather everyone and go search for Eleanor. Now!" He then intended to join the search himself, but Lady Beatrice grabbed his sleeve to stop him.
"Why do you care about that dying lady? If she doesn't die today, she'll die tomorrow! You have to stay here with me!"
He shook her off so hard that she collapsed onto the floor. He turned, voice cold as steel, eyes so fierce that she trembled in fear.
"You are utterly rotten-hearted. Is this the wife I have acquired? Remember this well: the only woman I love is Eleanor. As for you, stay away from me. Unless I call for you, do not show your face before me!"
"Ahhhhh! Lord Alexander, how could you treat me like this?" she screamed shamelessly, the servants utterly shocked at the quarrel between the master and mistress.
Then the scene cut to a montage: he searched everywhere he could think of until he found, by chance, the crumpled farewell letter I had thrown away on the library floor. As he read it, the tears he had been holding back finally streamed down his cold cheeks. He bowed his head, struggling to stifle his sobs and repeated over and over,
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry for hurting you so deeply. I had no choice. Hngh—"
He ordered every servant to search for me until I was found. Sir Wycliffe went to Derby and to the local police to request assistance in the search. The entire town was in an uproar from afternoon till evening. The scene now connected with my side of events: I remembered riding my horse from the house to All Saints Church, and what happened afterward—I already knew—the end that awaited me with Vicar Michael.
After I died, Vicar Michael lifted my body to the altar, reciting prayers in a language I'd never heard before—not one spoken by mortals. Soon after, the church doors flew open. Lord Alexander rushed in, pale and drenched in sweat, his face ashen when he saw my lifeless body. He hurried to my side, gathered me into his arms, and released all his grief, no longer a mighty nobleman but a broken man.
He stared at my face, my closed eyes, the stillness of my heart, with unimaginable pain. He pressed his face to my chest to listen for any heartbeat, confirming that it was long gone. Vicar Michael crouched beside him, put a hand on his shoulder to comfort him, and said,
"She passed peacefully. Her soul will never be destroyed by a demon. That is God's blessing upon her."
Lord Alexander continued to gaze at my lifeless face, unable to respond, looking for all the world as if he had lost the will to live. Vicar Michael continued softly,
"The Lord decreed that you two should meet and part."
Lord Alexander turned to look at the vicar, unable to hold back his bitterness.
"Then may I curse God as well? Why must He make me lose my beloved twice? Why did He make my Eleanor suffer so much? What did we ever do wrong?" he demanded, his voice choked with anger.
Vicar Michael stood up, leaving him with a final thought before vanishing into the darkness.
"When the time is right, the two of you will meet again. This woman's yearning is stronger than steel. Her spirit loves you deeply. She pleaded with God to return to you in this world, to endure cruel fate a second time just to be with you once more. Even if she returns without the memories of her past soul, her determination is so strong that she would give even her last breath for love. Perhaps now, it is your turn to sacrifice for her."
Lord Alexander froze, cradling my body in his arms. He carried me on horseback through the dark forest near the church, heading for the oak tree. There, he gently laid my body among the roots, caressing my thinning hair and whispering words I would never again hear.
"Rest well, my love. Here is your sister's grave, and now it shall be yours as well. Wait for me to right the wrongs I have done. Then I shall return to you."
The scene shifted again—to a heated argument with Sir Wycliffe in his study. The two men were quarreling fiercely.
"Are you certain what you told me was true? Why was Eleanor's life cut in half?" Lord Alexander demanded.
Sir Wycliffe's expression was impassive, while Lord Alexander, usually so calm, was ablaze with emotion, pressing for the truth.
"It's true, sir. The lady told me so herself."
"You lied to me! Theodore, tell me the truth, now!"
"I stand by what I said. I did not deceive you," Sir Wycliffe retorted, raising his voice in defiance.
Lord Alexander paced anxiously, then sank onto the sofa, clutching his head.
"Do you realize what you've done? She died because you deceived me."
The words hit Sir Wycliffe like a blow. For the first time, he lost his composure and shouted back,
"I never meant to deceive you! I did it to protect your family! You must be rational. You are the Duke of Devonshire—the power you hold in Derbyshire has lasted for generations. Do you think I would let you give up everything for one woman?"
"What do you mean by 'give up everything'?"
Lord Alexander stood, fixing the old man with a hard stare, demanding an answer, but it seemed Sir Wycliffe, realizing what he had said, was not going to explain.
"…"
Sir Wycliffe fell silent, regaining his composure.
"Are you telling me that the only way to break the curse is to sacrifice everything for her life?"
"…"
Sir Wycliffe remained silent.
Lord Alexander's eyes hardened as the truth struck him. He said nothing more, simply left the room with a clear purpose.
As he descended the stairs, Lady Beatrice, waiting for him, tried to block his way.
"Where are you going? I forbid you from leaving!"
"Move."
"I will not! Do you know how mad you seem? All this because one dying woman disappeared? Are you insane?"
He didn't want to argue. The man she called husband pushed her aside so hard she struck the railing, leaving a red bruise. He paid no attention to her fate—his mind was full of grief and fury after the betrayal by his most trusted servant. The only thing he wanted was to reach the body waiting for him in the forest, the lifeless body of the woman he'd promised to return to.
He mounted his horse and rode from the manor without looking back—leaving behind power, wealth, and his new duchess. He rode alone, abandoning everything. No farewell letters, no explanation to anyone about where he was going or what he intended to do.
And then, the final scene: he returned to find me lying peacefully under the roots of the oak tree. He cradled my body in his arms for the last time, pressed his pale face to mine, closed his eyes in gentle surrender, and uttered the words that finally broke the hundred-year curse:
"I give up everything—my power, my title, and my life. To the demon that took my beloved Eleanor from me, I offer my life in exchange for hers."
With that, he laid my body on the forest floor, drew his saber, turned the blade to his chest, and stabbed himself, collapsing into a pool of blood beside me.
As his final breath left him, Lord Alexander reached out a trembling hand to caress my pale cheek one last time.
"My Lord, I will wait for her at this tree and go nowhere. I will wait until the day we meet again."
With those words, he died.
I turned to look at him in spirit form, my transparent face streaked with tears. He and I felt the same, no matter how deeply we loved, fate had separated us in both life and death. This man had never betrayed me—not once. He loved me to his last breath. All the misunderstanding was caused by the lies of others—well-intentioned lies with terrible consequences.
"I have waited here for you all this time. And now, I have finally seen you again."
He spoke as the scene faded, returning us to the oak tree in the forest.
"But even so, we are in different worlds. You are among the dead, and I am among the living."
"I know. I only wished to see you once more and to tell you the truth—that I never wished to betray the love I gave you. I know you must go on living, so I have one last thing to say before I must depart to the world beyond."
"No! You're leaving?"
I tried to grab him, but caught only air. I wasn't ready to lose him again. Our reunion was far too brief. He gazed deeply into my soul.
"I begged the stars for a chance to reveal the truth. My spirit has lingered here for centuries. But now, my wish is fulfilled. It is time for me to follow my destined path. You, who still live, must be happy, must start again, must find a new love without me. Find someone who will build a family and give you happiness—someone willing to give up everything to have you, someone who will care for you in my place."
I shook my head, unwilling to believe it—he was my only love. Tears welled up and rolled down my cheeks.
"But I could never love anyone else but you!"
"Eleanor, I have learned something from you: true love is unconditional. We are in different worlds, and a long road lies ahead for you. I want you to live a happy life."
"No! I don't want this. I don't want you to leave me again. Please, don't go!"
"My time has come."
"No! I don't want a life without you!"
He slowly bent close, cupping my tear-stained cheeks, and as his body began to dissolve into a thousand shimmering stars, he whispered,
"You must go on living, for me, Eleanor."
He pressed a gentle kiss to my lips, and this time, I could truly feel his touch.
Suddenly, the sky blazed with white light, clouds sped by unnaturally fast, the sounds of the wild and the wind vanished, and a warm radiance filled everything, as though we had entered another realm.
We both watched in astonishment as a figure stepped from a wooden pavilion—his body shone with a golden-white glow, and though there was no wind, I could smell the sweet scent of white flowers and honey. His handsome face was radiant, golden blond hair glinting under the celestial light, and he wore brilliant white robes—neither man's nor woman's, impossible to describe. Behind him were large, grayish-white wings, folding softly like those of an angel.
"You are—!"
"My name is Michael. I am one of the archangels who serves the Lord."
The figure's appearance reminded us of Vicar Michael and Vicar Reed.
He must be the angel who protected me from Dorothea…
"You must choose, my lady."
He gave no introduction or reason for his presence, simply asked me to choose. He didn't explain what, but I knew instantly what he meant.
"Eleanor!"
My mother's voice rang out from the forest, alarmed at what she saw—no doubt she'd come looking for me after I vanished from the room and couldn't be reached.
"Mama!" I called, torn between her and Lord Alexander.
Michael meant I had to choose: to go with Lord Alexander, or return to the present and live out my dreams as an archaeologist and live happily. My heart longed for Lord Alexander, but I could not leave my mother.
"Your prayers have been answered, my lady. Choose now—the Lord you love and worship has granted this opportunity."
"My dear Ellie," my mother called again. She saw Lord Alexander's spirit standing beside me, looked worried for a moment, then smiled, understanding instantly who he was.
"If this is the man your heart longs for, then choose him. I have my own path."
"Mama…" I gazed at her through tears, smiled, and turned to Lord Alexander. He bowed to my mother before returning his gaze to me.
I have chosen.
"Mama, thank you for everything," I said, turning to Michael. "I choose him."
Michael nodded with a gentle smile and bowed his head.
"The Lord has granted your wish."
With those words, everything vanished in an instant, as if none of it had ever happened. I was left alone, standing over a still lake under a blue sky.
Suddenly, an enormous mirror with a frame of angel faces and statues, each holding a trumpet, appeared behind me, ringing the bells of life.
I turned to look—reflected in the mirror were three figures: me, Eleanor Hastings, standing in the center. On the left was a Victorian lady I didn't recognize, with flowing reddish-orange hair and fierce hazel eyes. On the right was Lady Eleanor, daughter of a nobleman—the body I had once inhabited and through which I'd met Lord Alexander.
All three of us looked into the mirror. I reached out and touched the glass—and at that moment, Lady Eleanor and the red-haired woman merged into me, passing through the mirror together.
I woke with a jolt, finding myself in a familiar wooden bed—the very place where my time-traveling began. I rushed to the vanity mirror to confirm: I was in the body of Lady Eleanor Barnett, reliving the original scene. I turned to the door, certain that someone would soon burst in, and as I expected, Lilian entered. But this time, she wasn't panicked—she walked in calmly, looking puzzled to see me examining my own face in the mirror.
"What's wrong, miss? Why are you making that face?"
I ran to her and hugged her tightly.
"Lilian! I'm so happy to see you again!"
She was startled, but returned my embrace, gently patting my back, still confused by my strange words.
"Y-yes, miss, but we just saw each other a moment ago."
I let her go and beamed, not bothering to explain. Then I realized—if I was back, Lord Alexander must also be at Devonshire House. Heart racing, I dashed out, leaving Lilian standing in confusion.
"I'll be back, Lilian! I'm going to find Lord Alexander!" I called.
Running out the front door, I made straight for the little stable where I'd once stolen a horse at night, mounted the same horse, and galloped towards town.
Before I even reached Piccadilly, I saw a familiar silhouette riding toward me. I slowed my horse, waiting to see if it was truly him.
He stopped right before me, leapt from his horse, and opened his arms, signaling for me to jump into them.
Without hesitation, I did, overwhelmed by happiness, relief, and longing.
"I can touch you now, my love."
He smiled tenderly, then bent to kiss me once again. I wrapped my arms around his neck and drew him in for a second kiss.
"It's good to see you again, Your Grace." He looked at me with loving confusion and replied,
"And it is good to see you again, Lady Eleanor Barnett."
— The End —