Amaranthine

1: Another Life Begins

1880 - LIVERPOOL, ENGLAND

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"FREYA, ARE YOU LISTENING?"

I blinked a couple times, adjusting to the feeling of a new body. "Sorry, I wasn't," I said.

I was surprised to find my voice was really high pitched. Like, really high pitched. How old was I this time, ten? I sifted through Freya's memory. I was twelve. It seemed I'd hit the younger side of the scale this time. Shame, I was hoping for someone a little older. Maybe a teenager or a young adult so I could have more freedom. But I supposed this would have to work. It wasn't like I could be picky with my situation.

The man I was speaking to growled. "Listen when I'm talking to you!"

This was Freya Burrell's father. A quick skim through Freya's most recent memories told me that Mr. Burrell― as she'd learned to call him― had a sad history and became an angry man. Freya had watched her family fall apart without understanding any of it, but as I replayed all her memories, I knew exactly what happened.

Mr. Burrell was the picture of a loving father up until his wife had sailed to America with another man. There was no warning or signs. Not even the maids had noticed she was packing her bags until she was already headed across the sea. But not matter how perfect it seemed, her heart did not belong to Mr. Burrell; it never had. Her betrayal and infidelity left him with an unquenchable thirst for liquor and a heart that was still aching.

Freya was left with a sense of abandonment and sorrow, but she was a kind girl who cared more for her father's aching heart than her own. Sadly, she couldn't do anything to pull him out of his miserable slump. Not when she was almost a mirror image of her mother, the woman who was the cause of all this misery. Mr. Burrell could hardly look at his own daughter and Freya was too considerate to make him. So there the two stayed, estranged and wounded until Mr. Burrell's anger gave him the strength he needed to address his daughter again. And that was why . . .

"We're visiting the Joestars." Mr. Burrell said. "George Joestar is an old friend of mine. We should make a good impression; George wanted his son to meet you, so be on your best behavior."

"I will," I responded simply.

Suddenly the horses whinnied and I heard the driver yell. I felt the carriage slip to the side and I almost grabbed onto Mr. Burrell to steady myself. For a moment the carriage had a wheel hanging off the side of the cliff, but it was pulled to safety with considerable effort from the horses.

A sigh of relief fell from everyone's lips. We could all go on with our lives feeling thankful that we hadn't fallen, but I knew Freya was not so lucky. I could only speculate that our near carriage accident was the cause of my awakening in this body. I didn't get the memories of people's deaths. After all, it's something that never really happened.

The driver called out an apology and Mr. Burrell answered with a relieved voice. "I am simply glad that we did not fall. How lucky," he said.

Yes, how lucky. My lips pulled into a sneer as I glared out the window. How lucky that I was stuck living in Freya's twelve year-old body because the accident that killed her never happened to this timeline. Lucky me.

The carriage arrived at a monstrously large mansion consisting of a main building flanked on either side by two smaller buildings. The path from the street forked in three directions with each path leading straight to its respective building. We took the middle path, circling the fountain at the center and stopping neatly before the doors of the main building.