Chapter Text
Cleo lost herself in the rhythmic thuds of the horse’s hooves against the dirt, sighing. Today was her last day of freedom. She had been married last week to the Earl of Essex, and she didn’t even know the man’s name. Cleo and her father were on their way there now, so she could fulfil her duties as his wife, bear him children, and stand by his side for many years and…
The mere thought made Cleo want to vomit.
But this marriage had been arranged since she was a child, and she couldn’t let down her father.
She shook herself out of her thoughts as the enormous house suddenly came into view: the architecture seemed slightly out-of-date to Cleo, maybe 14th or 15th century, but it was beautiful all the same.
The light greyish bricks match nicely with the dark slate tiles of the roof. The arched windows were gilded in sunlight, staining the white grilles golden. Cleo was in awe, she tried to imagine the kind of things kept in a huge house like that. Maybe exploring this immense house would be her saving grace.
She kept her eyes trailing over the house as she slid out of her saddle. She tore her eyes away and looked herself over. Cleo smoothed out the creases in her petticoats and adjusted her dark shamrock green corset. She wasn’t ready for married life, but she was 25 now, and her father insisted he could delay it no longer.
She sighed, goodbye freedom.
Her father dismounted and they walked in a tense silence toward Cleo’s new house. It seemed as though her father wanted to say something to her, but he couldn’t find the words. His face kept making this weird expression, some sort of mix between constipation and uncertainty.
Their relationship had never been a particularly close one, but she was leaving him. Moving out. It wouldn’t kill him to say something to her, would it?
The large, ornate door stood before them. Her father had taken time off from his accounting job to bring her here, but had insisted he would have to leave her at the door. The tension in the air could be cut with a cleaver, and the silence between them hung heavy and awkward.
“I suppose this is goodbye, Father?”
Her father looked at her. His expression made it look like he wished to say something, but he didn’t.
With a nod, he turned on his heel to leave. Cleo couldn’t bear to watch him go, to leave her so readily without so much as a proper goodbye. She faced the door and braced herself for the challenges that came with married life.
This new life of hers would have to become the norm, whether she liked it or not.
She knocked gently on the door, hoping that the Earl wasn’t in. She knew for a fact he was, but a girl can dream.
The door was pulled open by her new husband, a bright smile on his face. She tried her best to offer an equally wide grin, but she had a feeling it didn’t work.
*
She escaped from her husband’s enthusiastic yet uncomfortable presence as soon as possible, asking if it was okay if she acquainted herself with the building. This is what she was really excited for. Cleo had a passion for [architecture/interior design], and she was eager to explore this vast house.
The interior of the house was clearly more modern than the facade.
She made her way through the high-ceilinged hallways of her new house. Every few steps, there were oil portraits of people Cleo assumed to be the Earl's family. These portraits were covered with gorgeous, sweeping maroon drapes. One portrait, however, made her stop in her tracks. The man depicted looked oddly familiar, and Cleo wracked her brain to place him. Suddenly, it clicked. It was the King—King Charles II. Cleo's hand flew to her forehead in disbelief, and she couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity of the situation before continuing her adventure.
She next came to a large room. It seemed to be some sort of lounge room, designed for relaxing after dinner. This room was high-ceilinged too and had massive bay windows. There were a few small tables dotted here and there and three uncomfortable-looking sofas facing a large fireplace with a portrait of the Earl of Essex himself hung above it. There were a lot of plain wooden chairs littered around the room - oh. Someone was sitting on one.
Cleo was taken aback.
“Hello? I’m Cleo, Countess of Cheshire. Who might you be?”
The figure turned from their hunched over position at the table. It was a woman, Cleo was shocked to realise, a woman with stunning warm brown skin and shocking white hair. Her eyes were shielded by thick goggles.
This woman was a scientist. A real life, proper, woman scientist.
“I’m Saira. Saira Bellum.”
Cleo couldn’t stop the smile that broke out across her face. Saira Bellum. Cerebellum.
It was as if Saira read her mind.
“I know.”