The Lilac Tunnel: My Journey with Samantha

I crack the door to check the coast is clear, tiptoeing past Elsa’s lit, closed door, willing the floorboards silent beneath my bare feet. On the landing, I pause to listen for Samantha’s room. Nothing. Downstairs, the clatter of dishes and a lingering scent of cinnamon and apples greets me, that dessert tart Grandmary’s guests enjoyed. Through the cracked door, Mrs. Hawkins stands at the sink, sleeves rolled to her elbows, a basket of sliced bread on the table looking more delicious than plain bread has any right to.

Grandmary calls her away down the hall, and it’s now or never. I grab two thick slices, the crust still warm, take a savoring bite, and tiptoe back toward the stairs.

Before I can climb them, quick footsteps descend above, long skirts rounding the corner. Elsa.

I retreat into the kitchen, too late. She demands an explanation I can’t give, bread lodged in my throat, unable to swallow or spit it out, just standing there guiltily while she launches into a lecture, Mrs. Hawkins hurrying back in, confused.

Elsa scolds me for stealing food and defying orders, then brushes past to fill a kettle at the sink, washing her hands of me entirely.

Mrs. Hawkins catches me before I retreat upstairs, her voice apologetic as she explains servants eat only after everyone else. She would have brought me food, but now, she just raises her hands helplessly.

Over her shoulder, I catch Samantha’s face in the hallway, starting toward me before Mrs. Hawkins waves her off. Sadly, I climb the long stairs back to the tower room, each step heavier than the last.

The next hour crawls by like days. Should I go home now, locket in hand, or wait until morning for a proper goodbye? I said goodbye to Stella just days ago, and another one already feels like too much.

Lying on my blanket bed, the wool scratchy beneath me, stomach aching with hunger, homesickness hits hard. At Dad’s, I’d have had dinner, a hot bath, a call to Mom or Stella, a movie before bed. As a wash girl in 1904, none of that exists. I curl up, listening to summer sounds drift through the window, children laughing, dogs barking, sounds that usually cheer me but tonight just deepen the loneliness. I close my eyes and imagine one voice outside is my stepsister’s, and I’m surprised how much that helps.