I continued my walk down my family’s timeline, finding older pictures of myself midway through. There was a whole section just for me with ‘Boston’s Cinderella’ inscribed above it.
“I was wondering where my other shoe was,” I joked as my eyes landed on the gold shoe that glittered under the case lights. It looked older than its counterpart that was currently buried in my nest back at the pack house. I supposed a hundred years would wear out even the nicest of shoes.
I skimmed over the newspapers, not wanting to read about my own disappearance and moved past that section. The next section was even more of a surprise. It was dated two years after my disappearance and it was a picture of Timothy’s wedding… to one Dorothea O’Hare!
“That absolute brat!” I exclaimed and couldn’t help but press my face closer to get a better look at the photograph. Timothy was cleaned up and had grown more facial hair than I thought possible for him. He was staring down at Dorothea with an adoring expression. I had never seen my older brother look so soft for anyone before.
I guess his penchant for flirting with maids never did go away,I mused thoughtfully to myself as I read about their marriage on the little card. It had, according to the card, been a giant scandal, tipping polite society on its head.
“Why is he a brat?” Storm asked, leaning over my shoulder to read, his eyes taking in the picture. I fought the urge to lean into his solid warmth.
“That’s my older brother Timothy, who is the most annoying human being in the entire world,” I explained as I pointed. “Andthatis my lady’s maid and closest friend. I don’t know how they ever managed to get married, Dorothea can’t stand him.”
Podcast grinned ruefully, typing on his phone. ‘ENEMIES TO LOVERS?’
I wanted to snort and tell him that I doubted it, but looking at the picture now I wasn’t so sure. Could all of their bickering have been a front for their true feelings?
I continued down the line, looking at the children that my brothers produced. Nicky and Ivy finally managed to have three daughters, the oldest being named Nicolette. Timothy and Dorothea only had one daughter, who I realized with a sad jolt, was named June.
The pictures began to change. My family members disappeared, replaced by their children and grandchildren until the final section had a plaque with a picture of a modern Wilde family.
“The Wilde family donated Wilde Manor to the City of Boston in 2002 in an effort to preserve the site for generations to come,” I read out loud. It was hard to believe that my family no longer owned our ancestral home. Where would they live if not here?
“It’s a historical site now,” Storm told me, seeming to sense my shift in mood.
I nodded quietly before leaving the glass case behind and letting my feet carry me down the hallway until I came to a stop in front of my bedroom. The door was open and there was a little stand proclaiming that it was my room and that it had been untouched by time. There was a button on the stand and I pressed it and the sound of a woman’s voice came from it.
“The bedroom of Juneau Wilde, one of the most mysterious members of the Wilde family. After her strange disappearance in 1915 her mother, Elizabeth Wilde, sealed this room off. She vowed not to move anything until her daughter came home.”
My breath caught in my throat and I moved to step inside, but there was a velvet rope blocking the door off from entry. I reached for it, intending to yank it out of the way, but a voice stopped me.
“Excuse me, that room is not open for exploration, unfortunately, as the materials inside are delicate. There is a room dedicated to some of the artifacts found in the room just down the hall if you are interested,” a woman in a blue vest called from down the hallway.
I wanted to ignore her and enter the room anyway, it was mine after all, but Podcast gently steered me away from the doorway and down the hall where the employee had directed us to.
It used to be one of our larger guest bedrooms, but now it was full of more glass cases of things that belonged to my family.
There was another employee standing up on a podium next to a screen and they were speaking to a small group of people who had gathered in front of them.
“In this room you will find artifacts that belonged to, in my opinion, the most interesting generation of the Wilde family. From Nicholas, the eighth of his name, and his business prowess that allowed the family to survive the economic crash of 1929, to Timothy Wilde who broke tradition to marry one of the servants who worked in the manor. But I think the most interesting member of the Wilde family is the one who went missing,” the employee said, flipping through pictures on the screen.
My face filled the screen and I felt my heartbeat kick up a notch.
“Juneau Wilde was a woman far ahead of her time. By all accounts she was a fierce activist. After Wilde Manor was donated to the city, our experts uncovered hundreds of pamphlets inside of her nest showing that the young omega was interested in many causes, from omega’s rights all the way to a woman’s right to work and own property.”
There was a lump in my throat as pictures of my nest flashed on the screen and then a picture of all of my collected pamphlets laid out on the floor. As I stared, I couldn’t help but feel violated. An omega’s nest was supposed to be sacrosanct. Only their alphas should have been able to see it and now my nest, my favorite place in the world, was being broadcast for thousands of eyes to see every year.
My body shook as I whirled around and hurried out of the room. Storm called after me, but I ignored him as I walked blindly through the halls of the place that had once been my home.
I had been so excited to see it earlier today, the novelty of my home being turned into a museum seeming to be an incredible adventure that was unique to my situation. But upon our arrival I’d realized that it wasn’tmyhome. Not anymore.
My feet carried me blindly down the stairs and into the one place other than my room that I had spent the most time. The Pink Room’s doors were wide open, but it was thankfully empty as I stepped inside. The walls had a different wallpaper on them now, but they were still the same shade of blush that my mother favored.
I stared at the walls, the new furniture, and finally up at the portrait of my mother that now sat above the fireplace instead of the ornate gold mirror which was sitting in the storage room of the pack’s bar.
My mother stared down at me with a somber expression, her lips drawn into a frown as she posed for the camera. My eyes were drawn to the little sign next to the portrait.
‘The last photograph taken of Elizabeth Wilde, taken a few months before her death in 1918.’ A choked sob slipped free from my lips as I sank down to my knees in front of the fireplace. Hot anger shivered through my body and I tried to process everything that I had learned. It felt as if I was going to burst into flames at any moment.
