Eleanor Langston Novels & Stories

That there would be time. There was no time now. But she remembered a name inscribed on the inside cover of the notebook, in different ink from the rest, older, the letters slightly faded — a name that had nothing to do with Kings or Vosses or any of the people who had decided her value and found it wanting. A woman's name. Written with the particular care of someone who wanted to be remembered. Eleanor Monroe. Not Eleanor King. A different Eleanor entirely. Someone who had built something in a glass and iron space and then been forgotten when the world moved on, the way women's work so often was — absorbed into the estate, the archive, the background of other people's stories.

Eleanor was on the same call, from the same London apartment where she’d gone for the holidays, wearing something gold because Eleanor always wore something gold for celebrations. “How’s Minneapolis,” Eleanor said through the screen. “Cold,” Leah said. “Luminous,” I said. “Both,” Caden said. Eleanor looked at him. “You’re learning her language,” she said. “Her language is better than mine,” he said. “Most people’s languages are better than yours,” Eleanor said. “You communicate primarily through implication and silence.” “And it works,” he said. “It works on Aria,” Eleanor said. “Which is the only thing that matters, I suppose.”

At least, that is what everyone else thinks, but that isn’t the true reason. You see, I have a secret. One that I can't tell a soul because if I do, I will die before I accomplish what it is I’m meant to achieve. You see, my name may be Eleanor, but my past name was Elise. Elise was born to a tyrant of an alpha and a weak mother who couldn’t protect her or her twin sister. She was given away at birth to suffer in an orphanage along the sea, where she was beaten and bullied day in and day out. When she was adopted by a farming family, she thought that things were looking up, but they were much worse than the orphanage, so much worse.

“Patricia Lang.” Eleanor’s expression sharpened. “There she is.” “You know her.” “Everyone knew Patricia. That was part of the problem. She was respectable in the way useful women are allowed to be respectable. Soft voice, excellent committees, very good at discovering talent that someone else could later claim to have saved.” Lady Ashbourne’s mouth tightened. “She collected girls as if she were collecting causes.” “Placed them,” Eleanor said. “That was her word. Such a pretty word. One places flowers in a vase, silver on a table, girls into opportunities.”

Eleanor said keeping a straight face. " What are you insinuating?" " That you are not fit to be called a mother. Besides your hands are filled with people's innocent blood so I won't like your baby to contaminate it from you" Eleanor said, keeping an eye contact with me. The doctor whispers to Eleanor and she nods her head. As the doctor left my mind went to what Eleanor said, my hand began to shiver. I have killed people all because of the position of a Luna. I allow my tears to flow without minding that Eleanor was present then I raised my head only to see the deaf and dumb lady.

“Mr. Alexander Langston.” Out of all the men in the world, she had chosen Alexander Langston. A man way above my league. But I could understand her. Alexander was worlds apart from Nathaniel Blake, the man who had once broken me in ways words could not describe. But maybe…Alexander Langston was also the only one quietly trying to mend what Nathaniel shattered.

She says as she sits next to me and holds my hand. “Okay I guess you are right.” I say. “Wow, you listen to her in a go but not to me even after I begged and pleaded. This is unbelievable.” “Well, she is listening to the boss.” Eleanor says as she snaps her fingers. “You. Are. Not. My. Boss.” Lucas enunciates each and every word.

“My goodness, you scared the life out of me!” Aunt Caroline was a short and plump woman in her mid-forties. Her hair was always dyed blonde because she took after her idol Madonna. She kept her face hidden with all the cosmetics she covered it. The only time she was seen without her make-up was when she applied facial mask. “Aunt Caroline? What’s got you all fired up?” Yet inside Ellaine’s head she was still thinking about the empty town and the huge tree. “You were having a bad dream!”

The email correspondence was between him and a man named Gustav Merrick and it had taken place fifteen years earlier. I would have to travel, a man stupid enough to keep an email would also keep the contract. Conrad lived in Bowman, North Dakota just off Highway Eighty-Five and it was a six-hour drive. There was only one way to know for sure if my gut feeling was right.

Finally, as they pulled to a stop before the manor's imposing front door, she spoke. "Miss Eleanor was a student of impossible things," she said carefully. "Botanist, some called her, though no university ever gave her that title. Others said she was a witch, though she laughed at such nonsense. Truth is, she understood growing things in ways that made professors write letters and newspaper men take photographs, though she never let them publish what they found."