A/N: Hi, thanks so much for the wait. It had to do with me participating in the Like, Totally 80's Contest and the Twilight of Craigslist Ad Contest. Check out their sites and vote! I have favorited them as an authosr on my page. It's anonymous, and even if you don't vote for the stories I posted... there are other equally as excellent ones up there! :)
My beta's for this chapter were supplied through PTB. Be sure to check their site out if you need any editing help :)
Specifically it was Pain Jane and CapriciousC. They were a delight to work with!
Disclaimer: Twilight and its characters belongs to Stephenie Meyer. No copyright infringement is intended.
"If I find in myself desires which nothing in this world can satisfy, the only logical explanation is that I was made for another world."
I looked about the unfamiliar area, confused, as the book toppled out of my hands and onto the bed. The room was far different from mine in furnishing and color. In my room, I had plain, white walls and a mismatched bed set. The room I appeared in had plain wood walls and the furniture was much nicer. There was a matching armoire, vanity, and bookshelf. The pieces were coordinated with the four-poster bed. It was beautiful and classic, but not mine.
I jumped out from under the heavy covers, wincing slightly as my bare feet touched the chilled wood beneath. I ran to the window, ripping the curtain to the side. At first, my eyes only registered a ghost of a girl staring back at me. Her world was a pale, distorted version of my own. Everything about it was grey, murky, and undefined.
Together, we gaped. If the vivacity and color on my end wasn't taken into account, we could pass as twins. The same awed, horrified look etched across her face. She had my eyes, wide and unblinking. Her hair was pulled into a loose braid on her shoulder and she wore a long nightgown adorned with pale pink frills and bows. We stepped back simultaneously, elongating the picture. Under her gown, she even wore bloomers. I inspected my own body, seeing no difference. I wore the same attire and the same long braid lay on my collarbone.
My eyes travelled back up to the window, blinking. A blemish had appeared on her cheek, blurring the area further. Soft thuds announced the arrival of others, her face becoming unrecognizable by the second. The rain washed her away, leaving me alone in the strange room. I looked past the decomposed reflection and attempted to see outside. The rain made it difficult, but as I suspected, it was not the small yard of my apartment complex. Green pastures extended across a great distance, rolling over hills and under a few scattered trees. The house groaned under the crying sky.
To call the building in which I stood a house would have been an understatement. Young minds may have described it as a mansion. My love for reading extended my knowledge so I knew the best way to accurately define my surroundings would have been to call it an estate. I had my suspicions about where I resided. The rain, the furnishings, the fashion put me on alert. A soft robe was perched on a wooden peg of the standing mirror. I wrapped it loosely around myself before walking back to my bed.
Pride and Prejudice still lay half open. I picked it up and thumbed through the yellowed pages meticulously. What was so different reading it this time versus the last? It was smaller than most and had been folded so it hadn't had the opportunity to draw my attention. The literary stickler in me admired the letter writer's forethought to put it in the chapter where Elizabeth reads Darcy's letter, and consequently, uncovers the truth about Wickham. I pulled the page free and opened it carefully. Perhaps this letter held answers as Darcy's had in the letter he had penned Elizabeth. The script was familiar, and I frowned in recognition. It read:
It's funny. Now that I have finished the "final draft" of my original letter, I find I cannot stop writing you. Are you my muse, fair Bella? The idea that I may see my mother shortly is making me giddy with anticipation. Are you as excited to possibly see your father?
I'm sure that I have already thanked you, but please accept my gratitude again for taking the book. If I was correct in my conjecture of your birthright, you are no doubt in Wanderlust. I do not know what characters we will be, but I cannot stress enough the importance of keeping the truth of your identity concealed. You never know when one of the Corruptors will be around to hear.
There are two people that I am certain are currently in here that are safe to confide in. My uncle and aunt travelled here tonight as well. They too, are convinced that our parents are here. My uncle Carlisle has distinctive grey eyes and pale blond hair. My aunt has an odd shade of brown for her hair color, hazel eyes, and a freckle high on her right cheekbone. These two people are the only ones in whom I suggest you can place your trust.
The arrival of so many Travelers is likely to bring attention to the Corruptors. I doubt they will bring any physical harm, but be safe. Tell no one who you are, stay true to your character, and keep an eye out for any clues you can find on our parents.
Once you are aware of which character you are, think of the male they are most close to, and you will probably find me.
My eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Every time I received a letter from this strange, beguiling man, it always held answers—and a series of additional questions. Hot, frustrated tears prickled and stung my eyes, and I let out a huff of annoyance. Anger began to burn its way through my thoughts and body. I tore the letter into small pieces and tossed them to the bottom of the bed. It was as if I had been communicating to two different people. Edward of the letters was appreciative, helpful, and kind, not at all like the one who had met me for coffee.
As enticing as the idea and mystery behind Wanderlust was, it was becoming more and more difficult to accept it as an unknown. His letter left no doubt as to where (and when) I was—Longbourn in circa eighteenth century England. A fact that was still as hard a concept to grasp as the Dr. Jekyll/Mr. Hyde act Edward was putting on. My mind was refusing to stay on that subject, a petulant child, stomping away to a corner and blissfully enjoying the disbelief.
What was its correlation with Wanderlust? I wanted to know if it was the force behind the push to be here. Was it some other dimension that appeared to be the world Austen so lovingly crafted? Or rather, was it a dreamlike state that you entered when reading? If I were here, where did that leave my body? I pulled a pillow from behind me and screamed into it. Another matter entirely was what character was I to be? Curiosity took hold and my anger still stood in the corner, pouting.
Muffled voices straining to find their way through the wood of my door interrupted my musing. I stepped out of the bed and tiptoed over to the door opening it slightly.
"…are my ribbons?" a young, shrill voice rang up from the stairs.
"Check Kitty's room, Lydia!" called a faint one from somewhere else within the house. A small girl with dark hair appeared and rushed towards me.
"Oh thank goodness! Lizzie, do you have any ribbons I could borrow?" she asked. Grabbing my hands.
Lizzie? As in…
A/N: As I have mentioned before, this is my first publicly released material. Any reviews, suggestions, or questions regarding plot are always welcome in form of reviews or private messaging. :)