Edmund

May 30, 2025

Miss Reign's cheeks dimple, and her mouth corners curve upward as she bows graciously before me. The gesture, both playful and charming, sent a surprising warmth through me.

Those heart-melting dimples she has been blessed by lure me deep inward, and they are now part of the navigation of my soul. It most certainly does not help that whenever they appear on her cheeks, they are like prominent, cute exclamation points for her wondrous smile.

"And now, Milord, how about a piece of that pie?"

Apple pie graces the table of our attic room with its hue of golden brown, set within a rustic pastry, promising both flavor and a hearty warmth. I appreciate that she has gone through trouble to bake it, seeing how mere two months ago Miss Reign had just begun to eat solid food. The aroma alone was a comforting embrace, a stark contrast to the sterile meals of her future.

According to her own words, she had never prepared a meal in her life. I might have had something to say about the topic, but then, I recalled I had not done so either, and so, I decided against the comment.

As she cuts the apple pie into slices, I find myself starving. Apple pie had a way of bringing a real sense of home; perhaps the fragrance brought happy memories to the fore, I'm not sure. Either way, it was a taste of both nostalgia and of present joy. Hot apple pie, melting ice cream, it always felt as if it were a slice of heaven upon my platter.

I am now mouthwatering, longing to sense that familiar taste yet again, so when the ceramic plate reaches my hands, I eagerly take a bite.

Blergh!

"Well?" She hops around me, her eyes wide, expectant. The she-cook longs for praise I cannot give. I force myself to swallow the thing, a monumental effort, and then I clear my throat, trying to compose myself.

The food tastes horrid, yet prior to formulating that sentence, I am prudent enough to rephrase it time and time again in my head, lest I offend her.

"If I may offer an honest critique, my taste bud reconstruction of your culinary process has revealed that this enchanting cook had mistaken salt for sugar."

"No way? Seriously?" Miss Reign tastes her own slice warily after having seen how badly I was burnt by my unlucky degustation. Her expression shifted from eagerness to a comical dismay.

I am suddenly painfully aware of how the food tasters at her Majesty's courts must have felt over the centuries. At least I do believe that food that Miss Reign prepares does not hide poison within its folds, even if, if she keeps confusing the ingredients, it soon might, I jest, of course, inwardly.

My assessment is confirmed as she now wears this cute disappointed look on her face. A slight pout formed on her lips, making her appear far younger than her proclaimed age.

I hasten to comfort her, instinctively clasping her hand between both of mine, and a sort of current runs between our bodies. The unexpected contact sent a jolt through me, a surprising energy that hums beneath my skin.

Her touch feels like a magical fuel I need to keep going in this era, as I wait for the good fortune to take me home. And I cannot pretend I am able to explain it, but it is as if together we are a new kind of energy. 

She is my spark, and I am hers.

This discovery seems to have unsettled us both, so we let go at the same time.

I am the first one to speak up, albeit with a trembling voice.

"That is quite alright, Miss Reign. You have made a valiant effort for my birthday, which I appreciate. Cake or pie consumption has, as I see, remained a tradition for many years to come, and I am glad to have had someone prepare such a meal for me, today of all days, when I am so far away from home. What counts is your intention, regardless of the result."

"Right. So, translated to normal English, you are saying 'your cake is bullshit, but it's fine?'" Her voice is strangely hoarse and defensive, as if she wishes to deflect and push away the thought of how special our momentous touch had been.

"I am not sure how is my statement connected to bovine excrements..." I quirk a questioning brow, eagerly anticipating my teacherette's explanation of the modern argot.

My sentence is interrupted by a salve of laughter coming from the enchantress as she doubles down in mirth. I am glad that the awkwardness of the previous moment has been driven away from our bond.

I do my best to complete my musings, despite the distraction of her gleaming white teeth. "Yet I assure you that it is sincere. It is a mistake that can happen to anyone."

"Luckily..." Miss Reign is already flying across the room, "I have just the thing to annul the bad effects of this unpleasant surprise!"

I cannot help but wonder what devilry she is up to now. She is positively gleaming, but the gleam is both happy and mischievous, and during our brief sharing of the attic room, I have come to learn that it does not bode well for me as a sign.

A gaudy pink package peppered with rosebuds makes a reappearance, this time being waved at me from her little hand.

"A present." I smile, my natural curiosity aroused. I tear apart the wrapping, eager to learn of its innards, equally as I am eager to get my sight rid of that ungodly coloring.

At Worthington Estate, our gifts were a Christmas affair and fairly rare at that. The family was well off, yet not so well off that we would be able to obtain luxurious presents throughout the entire year.

Yet I would wait for December with eagerness. I could not get enough of the family idyll, hearth warmth, the good times we would spend together, mirth, and abundant food. Perhaps those holidays were one of the rare truly peaceful periods in our home.

So peaceful, that I would not even mind my mother's saying that "Jesus gave us more determination to live in sustainable ways, to respect creation and the Earth we have been blessed with," as I usually did, since I was not much for the religious affairs in the first place.

Yet I inexplicably yearned for the sense of Christmas spirit to be present all year round, that thought more of giving and less of receiving.

I glance back at a present, content as a small child, burning with desire to discover its contents.

What awaits inside is a metallic contraption whose purpose I cannot tell, but I know one thing.

It is a machine. Not as big as the one with the knob panel, so I guess it probably does not have the same purpose at all. Yet, I cannot possibly hope to guess which purpose the deuce it does have.

I wonder of what kind when Miss Reign solves the conundrum for me.

"Now, you have to make a guess! I'll help you!" She giggles conspiratorially like a little girl. "This is a machine that typically accomplishes a task of instantly brewing a popular drink."

"A popular drink?" To my inner nitpick, Miss Reign's definition is as wild as it is inaccurate, due to the fact that 'popular drink' of her era, may not as well refer to the popular drink of mine.

"Lemme give you a clue. The popular drink I'm talking about is... Made out of ground beans... And our morning favorite?" She fumbles around with the machine, and presses a button.

A homey aroma draws my soul into its cocoon for a few blessed moments as I recognize a coffee scent.

The smell immediately takes me to my study room at Worthington estate and to that time shortly after dawn, when the entire household is still asleep. I see myself holding a coffee mug and rich aromas permeate the recently sunlit room. That is my steady time, my touchstone moment, before the creative swirl of my poetry writing day takes off. The same coffee mug hugs my hand upon wintry days too, sending warmth from my fingertips to my sunlit daydreams.

I am, or at least, I was, a creature of routine. Doing the same thing each day, albeit with small variations when I choose, made me happy. That same coffee mug each day made me happy. The same clothing, the same chair in the same room. And all of that sameness made me more creative, more willing to dream and create imaginative writings. Every ship needs an anchor. I made my own of routine.

Its dark aromatic perfume beckons me, yet Miss Reign does something unexpected.

She pours milk into the cup first and adds mere droplets of godly drink.

"A gaudy hillock of overheated milk atop a thimble's worth of coffee? And a cost? Equal to three stallions, I am sure." I turn away in disgust.

"You owe me to at least try it. I promise it will wash away the apple pie salt." She shoves the cup in my face.

This is not how I imagined my birthday will transpire.

I take a cautionary sip, and the heat of the coffee becomes warmth within, rising to the sensation of calmness and serenity.

"Good?" I hear Miss Reign's voice right next to my ear, and I shiver involuntarily.

"Heavenly. Oh. My. I can see why this might be popular."

I think how much mother and sister would love it, and how they would marvel at the way it functions if they were here, and a sting of the past finds its way to my heart.

"Well, you'll be glad to know that you can make it every morning by a mere press of button." She does a little triumphant dance, and my eyes follow the curves of her body.

I am deeply touched by her gestures, by which she tries to apologize for whisking me away from my era.

"Thank you, Miss Reign. For everything. I know I have emphasized this just moments ago, after prying myself away from your salty apple pie, but you must allow me to express my gratitude again. For trying to make my stay here comfortable even when you yourself struggle about it." I swallow and walk toward her, willing to extend a customary hug she taught me about, even if it is a little too informal for me and my upbringing.

Yet just as I stretch out my arms, expecting a warm, witchy body, a furry, fuzzy, ginger-furred little animal is shoved into them instead. I almost toss it away with a yelp, and then my brows furrow in recognition.

"Is that a... feline? What on earth are you...?"

The kitten is a new spark of life in our attic, clad in the softest fur. Its eyes tell of pure energy tempered by an undercurrent of nervousness, and I chuckle inwardly since its personality reminds me of Magna's.

It leaps on the floor with the sudden pounce of a tiger, gaining confidence and accuracy. It won't be long before it is pure cat, independent and sassy, the king of his human subjects. Not yet though, not yet. It is still like a little boy trying on father's shoes, sitting to lick himself like he's a year old already, losing his balance and trying to look like he meant to do it.

When I try to pick it up in my arms again, the ball of fur lets out a little hiss at me, and it shows its claws.

"I'm sorry! I just... I have always loved cats and was never allowed to have one. They are incredibly expensive in the future, and my father was adamant. Here, they just pop out from any alleyway for free! And most of the time no one seems to be looking after these poor darlings! They are practically begging to be taken. And I mean, I thought you of all people would be delighted to have one. I saw how much you love dogs, way back when I met Myles, so I thought you must be an animal lover in general. And... Sooo... Consider it a little cheer me up?" Miss Reign coos at the animal in a way that makes me wonder if she hadn't actually acquired this present for herself.

"Well, yes, I do love canines." I nod dryly. "Felines, I am not so partial to. They should live in stables and storerooms, chasing mice. They have no place in peoples' houses. Even if my sister might disagree," I add with a smile.

"Nooo, how can you say that? Look at his fuzzy wuzzy fur and his cutesy wutesy little snout! And he will definitely help us get rid of all the attic mice!" She looks at me with that hopeful "can-we-keep-the-animal" gaze, combined with a female power pout.

A strong, enchanting combination that I cannot quite overpower.

The reddish feline purrs, and it transfers itself into the enchantress' arms.

"Ah, it's a he?" I sigh, exasperated, my doubts confirmed, but also wondering how the enchantress knows it.

"Ginger cats are always males, didn't you know?"

"I admit I am not well acquainted with sexing when it comes to this particular species. I shall also admit I had expected the kitten to be black." I smile at the sight of the tomcat getting his paws stuck in Miss Reign's hair.

It's the happiest I have seen her in a long time, so I allow it. Her laughter is in earnest, as if it were a natural spring, the water deepening the hue of the rocks. It was my serenity, for in this moment I was most alive.

"I suppose the feline may stay. It strangely suits you, witch, regardless of the fact that its fur color is absolutely wrong." I jest. For some reason, I cannot shake away the thought of her and that cat on her shoulder, now fully grown, riding a broom across the full moon.

"I thought felines have no place in peoples' houses?" She eyes me, quizzically.

I shrug. "Yesterday I was clever, so I wanted to change the world. Today I am wise, so I am changing myself."

It is the truth. I am full aware I must resort to changing myself if I am to travel in this peculiar, new time and new world with this strange lady as a companion. Like the lush vegetation of the rainforest, my inner self needs cleansing to build a new Edmund, for the new era.

"I believe it would be for the best if you named the feline. I am not partial to the species, as I had already indicated, and therefore am uninterested in beckoning it," I add, trying to suppress a smile.

"Since my original time-travel idea was to attend a Shakespearean theatre play... Let's make it... William!" Miss Reign hops a little and does a pirouette, like a content child.

"William it is," I respond, and the new attic tenant hisses at me once again in reply.