"I've set your dress for tonight," Rosie says, placing folded towels in my bathroom closet.

"Thanks, Rosie." I smile at her.

"Don't forget to be a bit earlier. Your aunt is having guests tonight," Rosie reminds me.

"Early, I got it."

"Good day, Miss Bette."

Rosie leaves the room and I find myself alone once more. Rosie is new since my last visit to Emmerson Estate. Aunt Vi goes through housekeepers faster than most people go through a carton of eggs. I remember this about Aunt Vi. Rosie is the freshest face around here. She must by nearing 50, with a plump figure and graying hair. Still, she has a sort of youthful glow about her.

Something I am sure Aunt Vi will extinguish.

I leave my room behind to explore the rest of the house. Most of it is as I remember, save for some nooks and crannies with new vases and updated oil paintings.

I zigzag through hallways and rooms until at last I reach the aged-oak door.

The library at Emmerson Estate is a spacious room with wide windows, vaulted ceilings and walls upon walls of shelves upon shelves -all filled with an impressive collection of books. I wonder how long they've been accumulating. Centuries, I imagine.

There's everything from tattered leather-bound books, gilded-page volumes, a collection of old London newspapers, and hand-written journals.

This is what I crave now.

I pull a journal from the pile of unused ones and make my way to the old desk beneath the window -the one my grandmother would insist I use for summer studies.

Elizabette Bray Emmerson.

I scrawl my name across the top of the blank page. My free fingers play with the worn leather on the journal's spine. This is the first of many entries, I imagine. Growing up an only child and without many friends, I used to spend hours journaling each night. I'm used to it now.

I prefer the analog of it. There's something about pen to paper that is far more satisfying than fingers to a keyboard.

My mind wanders in search for a place to start. I try to imagine myself some sixty years from now, an old lady, rereading this journal. How do I want to feel then about what I'm writing now? Do I even want to make it to an old lady?

The writing table creaks beneath the weight of my elbows. For all it know, it's been years since it's been used. Aunt Vi does not strike me as someone who sits at a desk pouring over journals or books.

I stare at my name for ten more minutes before I finally give up. There's no place to start. There's no way to just explain everything I feel: alone, misunderstood, trapped.

Instead, I stand from the wooden chair tucked in the corner. My legs carry me out of the stifling library and into the side garden. The birdbath is currently infested with pleasant chiffchaffs, which scatter as I walk toward them.

I spot a much smaller building, covered in crawling ivy, nestled between the west side of the house and the stone wall of the garden. The rose-colored gravel crunches beneath my feet as I close in.

It's similar to a greenhouse in appearance. As I peer inside, I am surprised to find it empty of all plants.

A tarnished plaque hangs on the wall beside the door: CONSERVATORY.

The glass door easily yields to me as I push it open. It's as humid as a tropical rainforest inside and almost dark as night. The ivy enveloping the glass walls is just as thick as a tree canopy. Patches of shaded light come by from the cracked glass ceiling.

In fact, almost the entire ceiling is gone now. Beautiful golden rods exist in place without any glass to support. I have to imagine this place was once a breath-taking sight.

There's a cozy bench against the far side, its faded cushions laden with decades of dust. I catch my reflection in a blotted mirror, its frame rusted by years of rain. A brass rack holds the remnants of cracked flowerpots and broken vases and dried flowers litter the floor.

...

Over the next several days, I revisit this ramshackle room. I've wasted hours away reading, getting lost inside the pages of countless books. I've battled ancient armies in the Crusades, survived the plague of medieval times, and most recently attended a school for witches and wizards. I even befriended a zombie or two.

There's something soothing about the quiet that exists in the conservatory. It's like I can transport myself anywhere. It's cool and sort of damp, but tropic and airy at the same time. The whole room is engulfed by an earthen floral aroma leftover from long-gone plants.

I've even found myself writing freely. When I'm not reading, I'm journaling. I'm crafting outrageous stories that all end up outshining my reality. Not a hard thing to do, really.

There are now four separate pages titled Elizabette Bray Emmerson.

My favorite thing about my new hiding spot: Aunt Vi can't find me. She'd never think to look in such an old and dirty place. She would absolutely disapprove of the soil stains on my skirts.

She tells me as much at every mealtime. I arrive on time, fresh from the shower, and perfectly clean, but still Aunt Vi finds something to criticize.

Speaking about mealtime... My watch points to 5:50. Only ten minutes to dinner. I close Romeo and Juliet and stand from the cushioned bench in the corner. Stifling a yawn, I duck under a veil of ivy and find myself exiting the conservatory.

My legs walk on autopilot through the garden, into the library, and up the stairs. I only realize I'm at my room when I reach the closed door. I turn the gold knob and plop onto my bed -my book still in hand.

I find myself feeling sorry for the star-crossed lovers, but also jealous. At least they had something. Sure, I'm only 17, but I've never had anything. Nothing. This one boy back in Savannah, Trey Black, asked me to prom last year. I ended up saying no -for no reason.

I've never felt connected to anyone, at least not in a romantic way. I always thought I would know it -feel it. Here's hoping I don't need a raging family feud and bottle of poison to end up finding it.

My phone vibrates on the bedside table. I know it's my wash-up for dinner alarm.

Five minutes to go.