April 1st, 1894 — Applegate House, Cotswolds

The music box was missing.

That in itself would have wrecked Rosalie on a good day, for anything having to do with her late brother usually did. However, this was far from a good day. She had had to argue her way into her parents' home, and had to hysterically point to the portrait of them all over the fireplace before she was finally given permission to search her bedroom for an item of significance. They still doubted her and questioned the portrait, but once the ritual was complete — once they remembered again — it would all be a nonissue.

She'd torn the room apart searching for the broken box with its squeaking hinge and rattling gears. Then, once she collapsed onto the bed in an emotionally exhausted heap, she realized there was a second item that might hold enough significance to regain her identity: her charm bracelet. The bracelet was a gift from her parents and she had been gifted other charms by her friends and family since originally receiving it. She wasn't seriously emotionally attached to it, but it had meaning. It was the story of her in jewelry. Surely, that would be enough? Surely, she could present it to Ezra and everything would be put to rights again?

Except, the jeweler had no record of it.

The receipt she'd been given was evidently meaningless, the bracelet doomed to be lost to the ethers. Rosalie had nearly screamed at him, would have too were they the only two in the small shop. She wanted — no, needed — her life back. She needed her routines and her patients and at least one friendly face to smile upon her.

That was when the thought she'd refused to acknowledge since receiving his letter came once more unbidden: her engagement ring.

There was no other item besides the music box that held more significant meaning to her than the ring that was once offered with such love and adoration. But, did Ezra still have it? He must've. Rosalie couldn't imagine a scenario that would have possessed him to sell or re-gift it. The Applegates weren't desperate enough for cash that he would've had to for the sake of his family, which meant he had to have it somewhere.

But where? His room? It was too invasive to search his personal space like that, too cruel to invade his home once again. But, what other choice did she have? Without it she could never be herself again. She could never be Rosalie Abigail Hunniford, Plants and Potions Poisoning Healer and Amateur Researcher. She had to find it, even if he'd never forgive her. Even if it was the final straw that pushed him into hating her.

The path to his room was one she remembered easily after having visited only last year, though unlike last year she had had to dodge the sight of two maids still turning down the beds. Then, with a silent prayer to Merlin that Ezra would choose tonight to have a late night anywhere else, Rosalie began her search. A search that, as she closed the last drawer, had proven fruitless. She'd taken care not to look at anything beyond what she was searching for, leaving all papers untouched and clothes (mostly) unruffled. He had to have it somewhere ...

Her bedroom.

Rosalie had only just begun her search of the apparent storage room, her wandlight as low as she could manage without it extinguishing, when the door opened and closed behind her.

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Working through the weekend on the memory lapse issue had meant neglecting his seedling to some extent, so after work that day Ezra had plenty to do in the makeshift greenhouse he'd created from a tent and a series of environmental charms out in the garden. After he finished there he went to wash up in the downstairs lavatory, then headed upstairs to get ready for bed. Before he could reach his room, though, something had caught his eye — hadn't he left the door closed to his room, where now it was ajar? It could have been one of the servants, but they didn't usually go into his room on a daily basis; they cleaned twice a week and the rest of the time left him to his own devices. The servants they employed were mostly here to look after his father, whatever their titles. Still, it wasn't out of the realm of possibility that someone might have been in. But on opening the door he found more things out of place — all little things, all inconsequential, but stacked up they built a picture. Someone had been looking for something in his room.

There still could have been an innocent explanation, and Ezra turned on his heel to go ask around until he found it — but then he saw a light under the door opposite his. That room wasn't used for anything except storing Cecilia's old paintings. There was no reason anyone would be in there — no one who knew the house, anyway. So this was an intruder.

Ezra drew his wand and braced himself, then opened the door. "Drop your wand and explain yourself," he called. He couldn't see who it was yet, as his eyes needed a second to adjust to the dim light, but they had their wand illuminated so he had no trouble aiming his wand at them regardless.

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Her hands stilled in the drawer they were in, her breath caught in her throat. She ought to have been relieved that it was Ezra and not any of his family or staff that caught her, but facing him when her heart was in her throat had never been something she was capable of. It was why she'd avoided being involved in the dissolution of their wedding plans.

"I can explain." She responded despite making no move to drop her wand. Ezra was the more talented duelist between them, but Rosie was desperate. She needed a backup plan for if he refused to listen, some sort of defense that might allow her more time here.

Lowering her wand to her face so that he could see her, Rosalie added, "I'm looking for my sentimental item."

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He was surprised to hear a feminine voice answer him back. How many home invaders were women? Women with wands, at that — this wasn't just some vagrant who had wandered in looking for anything they could to steal. A witch had come to their house purposefully, which was baffling. What did the Applegates have that could possibly make them a target of such crimes?

Then she lowered her wand and he got a good look at her, and his confusion only doubled. He recognized her, but he had no idea what might have possessed her to come here. "The — from the modiste?" he said, disbelief apparent. "For —? Merlin," he breathed, looking exasperated. "Sentimental to you, not to me." Had that not been obvious? If he'd needed an object that was sentimental to him he would have just brought one and not bothered her with it, not — asked her to break into his house looking for one!

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"Yes, from the modiste. Rosalie Hunniford." She confirmed, obviously exasperated. He still thought her the uncooperative, annoyed woman he interviewed a few days ago, which was fine. It wasn't as though anything could change between them or that he would somehow randomly remember it all. It didn't matter that Rosalie had become convinced that nothing short of being completely obliviated would allow her to forget him like this. Nor did it matter that he had somehow begun to move on with someone without even considering giving her some kind of warning. None of it mattered so long as she found the ring and became herself again.

"It is sentimental to me." She insisted as she turned back to the drawer before muttering, "I'm looking for my ring."

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Ezra wasn't even slightly following this train of thought. "I don't have your ring," he said flatly. He didn't know what ring it was — family heirloom, perhaps? — but there was no reason for him to have anything of hers, and no reason for her to think he did. Their families had hosted mutual dinner parties a few years ago. He had apparently irritated her; she was even more irritated that he didn't remember why. None of that was good reason for her to have left anything at his house, and certainly not in the spare room no one used.

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"You do." She insisted. Perhaps it would've been better to simply ignore him and carry on her search. He'd likely stun or incapacitate her in some way, but maybe she'd get lucky for the first time in years and he'd just allow it to happen. That or in the time it took him to summon help she could find it and flee.

It was a ridiculous plan. One she knew was made out of desperation and hopelessness.

"I threw it at your face four years ago after you tried to tell me about your curse. You have to have it, because if you don't-" she shook her head and forced the drawer shut before opening the next one. "You have to have it."

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Ezra was busy preparing his Ministry Official demeanor, the polite-but-this-conversation-is-over expression and the tone of voice that suggested everything would be better left in his hands regardless of the words he used, up until she mentioned the curse. That stopped him in his tracks, because Ezra didn't talk about his curse with people. He couldn't talk about it, even with the people closest to him. Even Hanna or Byron had never been able to understand him when he'd tried, and he knew they were suffering from it too. But she knew. She'd said it with certainty; not a blind guess. She'd sought out his house.

Ezra lowered his wand and crossed to her, grabbing her wrist before she could open another drawer. "Who are you?" he demanded, because this — didn't make sense. He was an Unspeakable, he was used to dealing with things most people couldn't comprehend — but even he was coming up blank here.

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Rosalie glared at him. It had hurt watching him walk away with Miss Broadmoor, just as it hurt when she watched him dance with other women or when he called her vile names. She didn't want to trudge through the emotions that came with explaining their connection, not when the connection was seemingly one sided.

She pulled against his grasp, determined as ever to keep searching. "Your ex-fiancee." She then bit out when she couldn't escape.

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Ezra held tight to her wrist as he wrestled with her answer. He wasn't sure whether he believed her yet, and had no intention of letting a stranger who claimed to have a connection to him rustle through his family's things. Fiancee — ex-fiancee. He didn't think he could believe it. He knew this memory issue better than anyone, but he thought if he were missing someone who had once been so significant to him there would be gaps, shadowy vague memories, something to indicate that something once there was lost. It was unbelievable to think that he could once have asked someone to marry him and now he simply didn't remember, no matter what magic was at play.

"You're lying," he decided. "I wouldn't have told you." He wouldn't have been able to, even if he'd wanted to — and he didn't know that he would have wanted to try, even if he could have. Why burden someone he presumably cared for with knowledge they could do nothing about? Which brought to mind another point, another reason to find her story implausible: "I wouldn't have proposed to someone."

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"Well, you proposed to me." Rosalie responded with a hint of her grief seeping into her words. She didn't know whether to be comforted by the unintended admission that their love was worth the risk of curse's consequences back then or if his current opinion was soured by all that went wrong. "We spoke just last week at the Grimstone wedding about us after you returned my lost bracelet." She added, not bothering to address his curse at this moment.

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He'd been at the Grimstone wedding and didn't remember speaking to her, obviously. Returning someone's bracelet vaguely rang a bell, but if pressed he would have said it was one of Hanna's friends who had dropped it. That was how this magical interference worked; he recognized the signs from his conversations with Miss Broadmoor about the night they'd met. So he probably had spoken to her at the Grimstone wedding — but it was a big leap from believing he had spoken to her last week to believing he had once tried to marry her.

"Why were you angry with me?" he asked. He took a step closer to her, because he had no intention of letting go of her wrist any time soon, so they'd might as well get comfortable. "You barely answered my questions at the modiste or the Ministry."

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Her breath hitched as he stepped closer, her eyes squeezed shut against the visions that danced across her mind. She didn't bother yanking against his grip again, it was a useless effort. Ezra had always been stronger than her.

She took a breath before answering. "You forgot me, Ezra. Me." Those strings of destiny were meant to be everlasting, proof that what they had was something beautiful. And he didn't even believe that she could have once been important to him. "Your darling Rosie." There were times when Rosalie would have done anything to forget him, to not linger in this pain a moment more. Never once did she consider that Ezra wouldn't forget her in turn. Never once did she think of what sort of hell being the one to remember would be.

"And then you -" chose her. Rosalie tore her gaze from him, her eyes focusing on the remaining flooring between them. Hers. This room was supposed to be hers. "You didn't even look twice at me. I might as well have been some random foolish debutante." It was a quiet, broken admission, one that could be made only after arriving to a heartbreaking realization.

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   Ezra Applegate

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He still didn't know if he believed her, but there was something in the way she said his name that helped her story. It was an ease that didn't exist in polite society; he had no trouble believing that when she thought of him she thought Ezra and not Mr. Applegate.

She was looking for a ring, she'd said. The ring that he'd used to propose to her, presumably, if he believed her story. A ring that she said she'd thrown in his face. Ezra let go of her wrist but stood in her way, frowning at her with a furrowed brow.

"Ex-fiancee," he repeated. "Which one of us ended things?"

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"I did." She answered truthfully but mournfully. "I - it's complicated and full of miscommunication." And assumptions. And blame. And a whole host of issues that Rosalie didn't particularly want to discuss with this version of Ezra. This version that chose Miss Broadmoor over her.

She rubbed her wrist where he gripped it and sighed. "I had two other personal items in mind, both are missing. I wouldn't have come otherwise."

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Ezra kept frowning at her. Complicated, she said. Maybe it was — probably this sort of thing always felt that way. But he only had a few facts to contend with, and if he took them all at face value it didn't seem all that complicated to him. He had proposed to her, allegedly — so he must have loved her deeply, if he was willing to risk bringing someone else into this mess that was his life and his family and everything else. She said that he had tried to tell her about the curse — so he must have trusted her implicitly, more than he trusted anyone else he could think of aside from his siblings. And she had thrown the ring he'd bought for her in his face and ended their relationship.

What was more — she was standing in his house long after things had ended (months, years? he didn't know when this was all meant to have happened) looking at the floor while she talked about how he hadn't looked twice at her. That was certainly something — to still feel she was entitled to be the first person he looked at in any room, given everything she'd admitted to. (And, he thought, if this was the version of events that framed her most charitably...)

He leaned against the desk she'd just been looking through and shook his head. "I think you'd better go," he said. "I'm sorry you haven't found anything else suitable, but I don't think you'll find what you're looking for here. If what you're saying is true, I can't imagine I'd have wanted to keep the ring."

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