The half-finished pizza from Giovanni’s sat on the coffee table, alongside an empty wine glass and a remote. Isabelle lounged in front of the TV, her Friday night routine in full swing: takeout, her cat, and whichever Jane Austen-inspired drama was trending. On-screen, Mr. Doesn’t-Express-His-Feelings-Well was once again entangled with Ms. Can’t-Quite-Articulate-Her-Needs. Their relationship, equal parts passionate and maddening, revolved around petty miscommunications and slightly exaggerated inconveniences.
Mr. Darcy, ever the attention-seeker, stretched up from the sofa and pawed at her arm. “Alright, I’m up,” Isabelle sighed, hitting the power button on the remote. The screen faded to black, and the room settled into a cozy silence. She scooped the cat into her arms as they made their way to the bedroom. “Luckily, real people aren’t that daft,” she muttered. Mr. Darcy meowed in response, prompting her to pause. “Okay, fine. They just talk to their cats like roommates.”
Once the cat had claimed his spot on the bed, Isabelle headed to the bathroom for a much-needed shower. Two days straight at the office had left her feeling grimy in a way that only hot water could fix. Stepping into the stream, she let the water cascade over her, the tightness in her shoulders easing as the heat soaked into her skin. She tilted her head back, letting her long brown hair, freed from its bun, fall in damp strands down her back.
As she worked shampoo through her hair, her mind drifted, and suddenly the strange dream from the train came flooding back. She rarely remembered her dreams—nightmares were more her speed. Dark hallways, unseen terrors, and relentless chases were common visitors in her sleep. But this? A frozen forest, an enigmatic conversation, and the chill in the air. It was so vivid, so unlike anything she’d experienced before.The steam began to clear as Isabelle stepped out of the shower, wrapping her hair in a towel. She took a moment to glance at her reflection in the fogged-up mirror. The gray towel hugged her figure, her full curves and five-foot-eight frame casting a confident silhouette. Her amber eyes stared back, unblinking. After a long pause, she smirked at herself, breaking the moment, and began her nightly routine.
Emerging from the bathroom, she shivered. Rooms always felt colder after a hot shower, and her bedroom was no exception. Mr. Darcy was already curled up, purring softly, a little bundle of contentment in the middle of the bed. Isabelle slid under the covers beside him, pulling the blanket tight.
She tried to relax, but sleep eluded her. No matter how tired she was, her thoughts kept circling back to the dream. That surreal conversation. The endless winter. And the blanket. Where had it come from?
Sighing in defeat, Isabelle swung her legs out from the bed and padded into the living room. There it was, next to her bag, folded neatly where she’d left it. She picked it up, running her fingers over the fabric. It was heavier than she’d expected, its dark green tartan pattern rich and finely detailed. It felt sturdy but soft—thick without being scratchy.
Curiosity piqued, she searched for a label along the edges. At first, she found nothing, but as she spread the blanket across the sofa, a small hand-stitched leather tag caught her eye. “McNeil & Gallagher: Court Outfitters – 1 Park Road, London.”
“Court Outfitters?” she murmured aloud, frowning. She’d never heard of them. “Tailors, maybe? But what kind of tailor made blankets? And Judges didn’t wear tartan.”
Turning the blanket over, she looked for more clues but found nothing else. Shrugging, she wrapped it snugly around her shoulders. “Well, it’s a bloody good blanket, at least,” she said, the warmth enveloping her like a comforting hug as she headed back to bed.
Sliding under the covers again, this time with the blanket, she felt a deep weariness settle over her. Her eyes grew heavy, and within moments, her soft snores filled the room.
____
The first thing Isabelle realized was that she was no longer in bed. Ornate arches stretched in both directions, framing her path. As she stepped closer, she could make out intricate carvings, each one unique, yet all telling a story.
One arch caught her attention—depicting a battle. Perfectly carved soldiers marched toward each other, spears raised high. Further along the arch, the scene shifted. The soldiers lay defeated, and two figures—presumably generals—fought in single combat, locked in a fierce struggle.
Before she could examine the next segment, something caught her ear. Between the arches stood a heavy wooden door, and someone was approaching, their voices raised in heated discussion. Panic surged through Isabelle as she hurried down the passage, ducking into one of the alcoves that lined the wall. She held her breath, hoping to stay hidden.
The door flew open, slamming against its stone stopper. “You must see reason in this, Olberon!” a deep voice thundered. “If you do not, I can see no path forward but conflict. I do not wish that upon you, but the others will not wait much longer in this cold.”
A softer voice responded, steady but firm. “You want me to open the garden to anyone who feels the need to investigate it further? This has never been done. Not once have I interfered in the others’ affairs, and now they wish to impose on mine? I will not have it, Thaddeus!”
Their footsteps grew louder as they approached Isabelle’s hiding spot. Thaddeus’ voice persisted. “If you won’t let others in, what about me? I will gather my best and offer them fully at your disposal. I only wish for this to be done with. The others are miserable, but they have yet to move against you… yet. If you do nothing, this will change, I know it.”
Isabelle held her breath, the tension building as the two figures stormed past. She could make out their clothing—Olberon was draped in black and white finery, accented with red, while Thaddeus wore tones of black and gray. Their attire seemed more suited to a Shakespearean play than to the modern world.
As their voices faded and their footsteps rounded a corner, Isabelle let out a relieved sigh and cautiously emerged from the alcove, glancing down the hall to ensure they were truly gone.
Then, a familiar voice whispered in her ear, sending a jolt through her: “No one likes an eavesdropper, dear.”
With a start, Isabelle blinked and found herself staring up at the ceiling of her dark room.
Turning over, the dream already began to fade from her mind as she settled back to sleep.The small eyes of the blue bird barely visible in the gloom as it perched on the windowsill. Silently watching through the glass before with a flutter it took off into the night.
______
Her eyes cracked open as sunlight broke through the clouds, scattering across the bedroom window. Isabelle groaned and turned over, her gaze landing on the alarm clock. Its glowing numbers read 08:12, glaring in the soft light. Mornings were always tough, and the first ten minutes of every day felt like a hazy limbo, barely real. From the other room, Mr. Darcy’s insistent cries for breakfast pierced the quiet, leaving her no choice but to face the day.
Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, Isabelle forced herself upright. By nine o’clock, the cat had been fed and she had reclaimed at least eighty percent of her humanity. By nine-thirty, she was dressed, awake, and cradling a mug of coffee as she settled into the sofa, ready to face the day properly.
Cupping the warm mug in her hands, fragments of her dream began to seep back into her mind. She shook her head, muttering to herself, “I need to stop eating so late,” before flicking on the television for some background noise. Saturday morning news unfolded in its usual pattern—bleak stories of doom and gloom punctuated by lighthearted segments about the perfect chicken Alfredo recipe or summer’s must-have fashions. Isabelle endured it until midway through the “Dogs of the Week” segment before switching off the TV with a huff. “Right. Enough of that.”
Her plans for the day—or lack thereof—stretched out in front of her. With work obligations unexpectedly cleared after her all-night session earlier in the week, she found herself with a rare, completely free Saturday. The flat was clean, so there was no need for a frantic weekend scrub-down. Her best friend Cara was off in the countryside with her boyfriend Jack, and Isabelle resolutely refused to spend yet another weekend curled up in front of the television, no matter how tempting it sounded.
Deciding to make something of the day, she stepped out into the cold mid-morning air, letting the brisk breeze energize her as she wandered toward the unknown.
The café she chose for brunch was oddly quiet for a Saturday morning, its usual hum replaced by the gentle clinking of cups and distant murmurs. Settling into a cozy booth, Isabelle inhaled deeply as the scent of sizzling breakfast wafted through the air. The warm, comforting aroma seemed to wrap around her like a blanket. Without meaning to, she found herself daydreaming.
A roaring fire crackled in an ornate stone hearth, its golden warmth chasing away the chill in her bones. Across the room, a banquet table glittered with an opulent feast—each dish a masterpiece of culinary artistry. A delicate pair of birds rested on a sculpted branch made from pâté and butter. Vibrant fruit appeared freshly plucked from a tree but was artfully crafted from marzipan. A jeweled spider’s web, spun from glistening sugar, stretched elegantly between two candlesticks. Her eyes wandered over the spread in awe until a soft voice startled her.
“Who are you?” the voice demanded from the doorway.
Isabelle turned sharply, guilt flooding her as though she had truly intruded. “Sorry?” she blurted, only to blink and snap back to reality.
“That’s alright, love. It is a bit early for some. I said, ‘Tea or coffee?’” The café owner’s gruff voice jolted her fully awake.
“Oh! Tea, please. And just eggs on toast.”
He scribbled on his notepad and nodded. “One tea and eggs on toast, coming right up.”
As the café owner disappeared into the back, Isabelle shook her head, trying to shake the strange feeling of shame. You can’t intrude in your own daydream, she thought, though the vividness of the imagined feast lingered. Her dreams—or whatever they were—seemed to grow more peculiar by the day.
The rest of her Saturday passed in a pleasant blur. A satisfying breakfast set the tone for window shopping, a simple but delicious sandwich in the park, and a mid-afternoon stop for coffee and cake. By the time the sun dipped low on the horizon, casting the streets in a warm amber glow, thoughts of heading home crept into her mind.
Passing by the statue of the great detective, she suddenly realized where her wandering had taken her. Just around the corner lay Park Road, right off Baker Street—the address from the mysterious blanket’s tag. It was getting late, but curiosity burned in her chest. Even if the shop was closed, at least she could confirm whether the place even existed. In the spirit of the famed investigator, she resolved to dig deeper.
Standing in front of 1 Park Road, Isabelle felt a pang of disappointment. The address was unremarkable—a pub and a townhome that looked much like her own flat. Casting her mind back to the leather tag, she was certain this was the right spot. But as she stood there, there was no sign of a shop, let alone a court outfitter.
Defeated, she turned to leave when the soft jingle of a shop bell caught her ear. Whipping around, she saw a well-dressed gentleman emerge from a small staircase leading down beneath 1 Park Road. His attire was strikingly anachronistic—a navy and gray suit, complete with a bowler hat—yet he wore it with effortless confidence.
The man paused when he caught her eye, tipping his hat politely. “Evening, ma’am” he said in a smooth, even tone that seemed plucked from a 1930s BBC broadcast. Without another word, he strode into the street, disappearing into the crowd as though he had never been there at all.
Intrigued, Isabelle stepped closer to the railing, peering down the narrow stone staircase. There, illuminated by the soft glow of a brass lantern, hung a polished plaque:
“McNeil & Gallagher: Court Outfitters – Est. 1682.”
The door beneath was deep varnished wood, its surface adorned with small, blown-glass bullseye panels. Isabelle lingered for a moment, watching as passersby ignored the hidden entrance entirely, as if it didn’t exist.
Drawing a deep breath, she descended the stairs and reached for the door handle.