It's been two weeks, two torturous weeks since I stepped into 1921, since I had champagne with Cleo, and since I laid eyes on Dawson.

It's also been two long weeks that I've spent sleeping in the attic, curled up on the dusty carpet beside the taunting wall of mirrors. Each night I find myself more desperate than the last. And each night Aunt Vi grows more and more concerned. Neither of us is letting up.

Sleep seems unreal now, useless. I don't see any point in sleeping when no dream could ever compare to my mirror life.

Lessons are the biggest waste of my time. Especially when you consider Aunt Vi spends more time doting on my handsome young tutor than said tutor spends actually teaching me.

Alas, in the midst of a lesson is where I find myself now. And they are truly as useless as sleep.

"Could you even pretend to focus, Bette?" Mr. Carrington peers sideways through his specs, resigned. "It would make the hours pass more easily."

I stretch my hands backward behind my head and fail to stifle a yawn.

"Even pretending takes too much effort," I say plainly.

The sunlight sears my eyes. I've spent so much time with them closed, they aren't used to the light of being open. When they're closed, I can still see it.

The glitz. The glamour. The charmingly gothic aesthetic.

It's all so clear in my mind's eye. I can picture the illuminated park, the archaic trolley, and the grand clock tower. My feet are still gliding across the glimmering tile of the Strand lobby and my ears still ringing with the raucous crowd and old age music. My skin still prickles with the heat of El Tropical.

"Bette!"

I barely hear my name. Or I don't want to hear it.

"Hmm?" I sigh absentmindedly, my fingers running the length of my pleated skirt hem. I focus on nothing but the gentle breeze hitting my closed eyelids.

Oh, what a glorious window!

"Honestly, dear." Aunt Vi scolds me from the doorway. 

My eyes remain closed, my mind elsewhere. But I can still feel her disapproving gaze boring into me.

"We'll pick this back up tomorrow," Mr. Carrington says, closing his volume shut. "Same time."

I snap back to reality, turning in my chair to face Mr. Carrington, who is now standing from his desk. He pulls the strap of his satchel over his shoulder and heads to the door.

"Mhmm. Same time tomorrow," I reply airily. As if tomorrow will be any more fruitful.

"Let me walk you out. Oh, this heat, I'll tell you. Would you care for some tea or lemonade?" Aunt Vi asks, her lopsided bun in disarray.

As Aunt Vi fusses over my tutor, her fingers clutching to his tweed-clad elbow, I escape through the door at the back of the library, my new favorite book tucked beneath my arm. I slip into the overgrown garden, engulfed by fragrant heat. Aunt Vi has one thing right –This heat.

I find a cool spot in the shade of a curtained willow and plop myself down on the grass beside the river. I pull a sheet out from my satchel and flatten it beneath me. To sleep is tempting –if for nothing else, then for the dreams I may find myself lost in. Still, my mind races too fervently to entertain sleep now. At least free of Aunt Vi and Mr. Carrington I am able to devote my undivided attention to thinking about 1921.

The book in my lap falls open and my eyes scan the familiar pages of A History of Chicago. The pages are ripe with dates, facts, and photos of twentieth-century Chicago. Arguably, and much to my chagrin, there's not enough written on the roaring decade. Still, I reread the same chapter over and over, searching for any reference to the Dead Ring or its infamous cult members.

The closest I ever get is a black and white image taken of the building next to The Strand. I can just make out the hotel sign and gold front doors, partially obstructed by an old Model T.

I run my fingers over the photo, once again closing my eyes and picturing myself back on that bustling street. I fail to stifle a yawn and stretch out on the floral sheet beneath me.

Like my eventual madness, sleep is inevitable.

...

Another two weeks have crawled by.

I return each mid-afternoon to my spot beneath the willow curtain, its colors now golden-yellow speckled orange. As the end of September draws near, I find myself in even greater despair. The month-marker is approaching and with each passing day the memories of my time in the mirror-world fade.

I finally stopped rereading A History of Chicago. Instead, I spend every available second researching vampires and vampire lore on the internet. I can't get enough. I tried searching 'Dawson' and 'Cleo' and even 'Moretti', but there is surprisingly little to be found.

Perhaps Aunt Vi was right after all, and the entire thing was one incredible figment of my overactive imagination –a side effect of all my book reading.

"Bette?" Someone interrupts my reverie.

"Hmm?" I ask dreamily.

"No way! Is it really you?" The voice sounds excited.

I blink lazily and a face comes into focus, set against the backdrop of a yellow willow. It takes me a moment before I realize I'm staring up at a boy around my age –a boy with dark eyes and a playful grin.

"Kit?" I sit up straight.

"It is you!" Kit grins.

"Oh my!" I scramble to my feet and throw myself at him in a hug.

I collect my composure as we break apart. Kit stares at me, bemused.

"Kit, you got -old!" I laugh.

"Older." He corrects me.

"Well –Yes!" I nod.

"And you've changed quite a bit since the last time I saw you," Kit says, coy.

"A bit," I echo. "Where've you been? I mean, have you been here all summer? I haven't seen you–"

I fire my questions in rapid succession, eager to devour his answers.

"One at a time," Kit laughs. "I have all afternoon."

Kit and I spend the entire sunny afternoon catching up beneath the willow. He told me how he's studying at university, but still picking up early mornings working on the estate grounds with his father. His dad does most of the upkeep and maintenance, but Kit spends his time in the stables. I smiled when he told me this, as I remembered it was always his favorite place. Kit loves horses.

I tell him about my time back home in Savannah, and how I've come to stay here with Aunt Vi for the foreseeable future. I'd almost forgotten how pleasant, how relieving it is to talk to someone my own age. And the conversation with Kit flows as effortlessly as the shady brook at the end of the property. Still, there is one very large piece of information I hold back. I'm not yet ready to divulge my mirror-life to Kit.

Only when dusk settles in do we finally stand from the grass and start toward the white-washed house. We walk together back through the courtyard. Aunt Vi spots us coming and steps off the stairs to greet us, an odd smile distorting her face.

"Bette, Kit, I see you two are finally reacquainted." Aunt Vi claps her hands together contentedly. I can almost tell she's been waiting for this moment. I find myself rather annoyed she didn't tell me Kit was here the whole last month!

"Yes, we did," I answer firmly. "Why didn't you tell me sooner Kit was here?"

"I always meant to," she says, shrugging. Aunt Vi turns to back to the stairs. "Perhaps thought your paths would cross eventually."

"And I hope they cross again," Kit says beside me.

I steal a glance at him –at his strong jaw and dark hair and dark eyes. How exhilarating it is to have found both an old and new friend today. "Yes," I nod. "I like to think they will."

Perhaps this 2021 world is not so intolerable after all.