FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

"Daniel?"

"Hm?" I looked up from my phone and smiled at the ermine barista, holding my morning latte behind the countertop. The scent made my wings bristle excitedly. "Oh, yeah. That's me."

I'd carefully grabbed it from her paws when she asked, "By any chance, are you American?"

"Indian American," I added, "On my mother's side."

"That's pretty cool," she giggled. "What brings you all the way out here?"

My smile almost faltered, then rebuilt itself quickly while pulling my winged arms close to take a small sip from the latte.

"Ah, that...I just thought Cornwall would be fun to see," I half-lied, then waved to her as she worked on another order. "Might go see Land's End or the Eden Project, if I got the time."

"Sounds lovely!" She beamed, waving as I promptly left the coffee shop.

Once more, seeing the open skies tickled the flying instincts inside me. They dared me to gulp down the latte, discard it to a trash bin, then launch myself into the air with widened wings fully extended. I absolutely wanted to see Cornwall's landscape from high above. Unfortunately, doing that would likely result in me getting a hefty fine from a vigilant police officer.

It still made me fume thinking about how the United Kingdom didn't just let every flying mammal take flight. Much like America, they held restrictions on where a bat like me could flap their wings. For example, the skies above personal property and most public parks were perfectly fine when gliding between skyscrapers and houses were not. Sadly, the fact that the U.K. treated flying licenses the same as driver's licenses meant I couldn't just purchase a temporary one at a local superstore. I needed to take actual classes on British flight laws, zoning regulations, and a bunch of other bullshit. Certainly not the way for me to spend my vacation.

Instead, I huffed and sipped on the latte, trying my best to forget about it. Which was hard, considering I spotted one or two avians flying around carefree during the train rides.

Still, the setback didn't stop me from enjoying the tourist scene. Far from it. I still got to visit London, Nottingham, Edinburgh, Manchester, followed by a trip to Winchester and Bath to see the Roman ruins, and eventually Bristol.

Of all the locations to go to during my European vacation, Cornwall was one of the more scenic locales. For some unknown reason, I couldn't help but add the Celtic region as the last place to visit in Great Britain before taking a ferry from Plymouth to the Brittany coast in France. Yet for some inexplicable reason, I felt myself being drawn to a small town on the edge of ancient Bodmin moor, to a Cornish town I'd never even heard of.

As far as they went, Tuskfield felt...quaint. Its unique, family-owned shopfronts and the cozy inn next door to a popular pub helped welcome me amongst a plethora of other tourists who wanted to see the moorlands. Tuskfield allowed us to get a sense of the Cornish culture, its townsfolk, the wonderful meals at local restaurants, its charming town square, and more.

As I walked through said town square, I smiled at every little detail to memorize; the narrow alleys which doubled as streets too narrow for cars to drive down, a giant vintage clock hanging from a steel rafter on an old building, cobblestone paths with green moss as old as Tuskfield itself, and unkempt shrubbery on every wall and in every front yard. Some more so than others. Traversing through every street and down every boulevard made me feel like an urchin in a Charles Dickens novel after escaping the orphanage.

However, according to the tourism stand, the most beautiful and historical site happened to be outside Tuskfield's limits. I'd gotten onto a local bus, then read up on my next destination.

"Fangcrest Manor?" I murmured to myself while reading the pamphlet in my paw. The bus turned left, right, moving up and down due to bumps on the road as I read a complementary pamphlet offered to me by a guide. The latte had been emptied and abandoned on the vacant seat next to mine. "'Built in the late 1760s, Fangcrest Manor is a unique historical site noted for its idyllic location overlooking Bodmin Moor'..."

I didn't think much of that information during the ride outside of town. Though, once the bus finally drove past a mossy and vine-covered exterior brick wall surrounding the estate, I felt my heart miss two beats. Then, I felt a quick rush of adrenaline that compelled me to be the first mammal to stand up and rush past the other passengers. I certainly earned a few annoyed frowns, but all that didn't matter when I finally felt the gravel on my shoes.

Being there, staring across the empty pea gravel driveway at the manor itself, felt very...familiar. It felt like a distant memory, despite never even knowing it existed. For several seconds, I stood there, frozen, and unable to do little more than breathe while taking in the rustic atmosphere. The vague scents of fresh flowers, their flowing petals in the wind, plastic chairs baking in the sunlight, and the smell of something akin to lilacs filled my nostrils.

"Young man," a voice echoed nearby. "Are you feeling quite alright?"

I glanced left to see an elderly badger half my height and wearing bespeckled glasses. Her concerned gaze up at me didn't waver when the other bus passengers streamed by us like water in a babbling brook.

"I...uh, I'm good," I replied. My reassuring smile didn't convince her. "I get a little carsick sometimes, that's all. Or in this case, bus sick."

The badger laughed with me, albeit a little more forcefully.

"If you say so then," she sighed before stepping towards the manor. "If you require the loo, go straight inside, down to the right hallway, and the second door on the left-hand side." By the time the nameless woman saw my confusion, I already noticed the nametag sticking from her polo shirt, and it clicked. "I work here, by the way. My name is Lily."

"Nice to meet you, Lily." I cordially nodded. "Thank you."

She walked off towards the building, but I stayed standing there. Even as the bus roared back to life and gracefully turned around to leave, its driver having taken another group of exhausted tourists back to Tuskfield, I still stood there, gaping at the beautiful Fangcrest Manor.

The property it sat on couldn't be any better. As I'd seen earlier during the drive over, the surrounding moorland bordered the brick walls surrounding flat grass, with the old building directly in the center. Overgrown vines blooming from summer drenched the bottom half of the structure, yet none of the many glass windowpanes facing the driveway and untouched grass were covered up, while the manor's architectural style (was it called Georgian?) made me feel as if I'd found myself in a historical drama set in the past.

Speaking of which, that familiar feeling never went away. It remained at the back of my mind as I finally joined back up with the bus passengers inside the manor's foyer outfitted into a guest lobby, which was connected to a ballroom packed with other tourists, and a dual staircase as ornate as the walls of the beautiful interior. Each time my eyes glanced at the layout beyond the lobby desk where we purchased the tour tickets, I felt a pang of loss in my chest.

No, it wasn't a loss for something. It felt more like a loss for...for...somebody?

I shook my muzzle and reminded myself Juniper didn't matter anymore. He wouldn't have even wanted to go on a European trip, let alone join me on one, especially after our grand, epic fight two months back. Ever since then, Mom and Dad had been saddened to hear my college boyfriend and I broke up, mainly because they wanted a grandchild. The species and gender of my future spouse didn't matter, and neither did the possibility of adoption, if our baby also happened to be a fruit bat like me.

Parents, I thought to myself. Liberal in some ways, but conservative in others. Then again, the Lierres aren't ever known for having the most progressive ideology.

Part of me couldn't help but giggle as I stepped forward. The ticket seller sitting boredly behind the desk offered me a weird look, and I brushed it away by offering a credit card as payment. The seller shrugged and accepted it. Before long, I found myself pulled into the tide of mammals crowding around a recognizable badger.

"Welcome to the illustrious Fangcrest Manor, ladies and gentlemen," she greeted us. "I am Lily, and I shall be your tour guide for this afternoon. I must warn you that the main house is rather large, so we mustn't dawdle if you're to see all that Fangcrest and its history has to offer you. Right this way, please."

Over the course of just under an hour, Lily gave us an in-depth glimpse into the old tapestry that the manor proudly wore on its sleeve, as well as about the Haywood family it belonged to. This noble family traced their roots all the way back to the Tudor period not long after the Wars of the Roses. Despite not having paid much attention to world history during college, I did know about King Henry VIII, whose father Henry VII granted the Haywoods an earldom for assisting His Majesty in quelling one of the Cornish rebellions.

The mythical story went that a thoughtful beagle by the name of Thomas Haywood heard talk of a planned uprising, then informed the King of what his people planned to do. Such a warning allowed His Majesty to dispel the rebellion before it could spiral into yet another civil war. At least, that was how the story went.

Afterward, the First Earl of Haywood emigrated his enriched family from Cornwall to another available country house on the outskirts of London. This allowed the once lower-class clan of talented carpenters the opportunity to integrate into higher society, as well as expand their business. Decades passed as the Earls of Haywood became yet another chain of nobility under the Crown. However, they still enjoyed infrequently travelling to the region of their origins, and after commissioning an architect to build an elegant manor facing the Bodwin Moor, they had possessed a private residence to go for holiday, or simply to escape the growing claustrophobia of an ever-expanding London.

"If you might have noticed, there's a plethora of Venetian mirrors lined along the walls of this hallway, as well as the other hallways," Lily explained with a clear passion for her job. "Large mirrors were not just seen as a luxury, but they served a practical purpose too. Until the electric lightbulb became commonplace in the late nineteenth century, castles, palaces, and large mansions such as Fangcrest Manor required candlelight to brighten rooms. Each hallway is filled to the brim with ornately decorated mirrors because they assist in illumination. Rather than place burning candles all over the main house, several lanterns would be lit, and their reflections bouncing from the mirrors would allow the owner to navigate from room to room without the risk of having to carry their own light."

The tour didn't help my unease in the slightest. In fact, I felt pretty sure it flared up when Lily started describing the most interesting detail. For an odd reason I couldn't explain at the time, I already knew it. I pictured myself dressed in old Victorian clothing, calmly walking between embellished hallways. A part of me would marvel at the darkness outside the windows being pushed back by the echoes of light dancing from a single source. I could even picture myself holding another small candle, except...why could I also picture needing to keep the bottom of my wings from dragging along the carpet?

The group of distracted tourists went ahead without me, hanging onto Lily's words as I stayed back. My palms sweated. My wings felt heavier than normal. My whiskers drooped with perspiration. The air abruptly tasted like bile. I felt as if my own reflections gaped into me and the walls themselves began closing in around me. Lily the tour guide had already gone around the corner to a room, leaving me alone as I stepped towards the right-hand wall.

Just then, a portrait caught my attention. I slowly turned my head upward. As quickly as the sensation arrived, it left, and the bile in the air dissipated as rapidly as my breath. Gazing down at me sat a stern yet handsome beagle. He looked around his mid-thirties. He had piercing, dark eyes, the kind that I always found attractive in any guy who caught my interest. Typical of any English aristocrat, he appeared well-dressed in a dark-blue jacket and ashen tie, headfur combed back into a presentable tuft.

A soft chuckle somehow erupted from my lips at how sharp he appeared to be.

His tan and white fur was well-groomed too, but behind the pristine brush strokes, something else caught my interest: the smile. I didn't know if it had something to do with Victorian attitudes of showing emotions, or if it had to be the genius of the original painter, but the beagle in the portrait appeared sad. Sad about what?

Whatever the reason, I couldn't look away. Much like the rest of the manor, he felt...vaguely reminiscent of someone I knew. Or...did know? Used to know? Whichever way it went, seeing the beagle's sad smile also made me feel sad. I wanted to pull the portrait down to the floor and hug its subject until it became flesh, fur, and blood in my arms. I wanted to make him no longer feel sad. I wanted to make his pain go away.

God, what's happening to me? I whimpered while leaning my head against the frame of the portrait. Look at me. I'm going crazy, and I bet when they see the security footage, I'll be sent to the closest mental ward this side of England.

"Davy?"

My legs became frozen stiff, and I glanced up to see the painting unmoved. Yet, when I looked left, I spotted movement in one of the mirrors. It was a middle-aged vixen in an old-fashioned housekeeper's uniform. Her kind eyes squinted directly at me through the reflection.

"Lord Haywood requests your presence in the ballroom, Davy," she said. "You best go tend to him, and fast. He's quite eager to see you this day."

"Huh?" I turned around to address the housekeeper, no doubt confused about who I was. "Who's Davy?"

Nobody stood in the hallway. It lay as empty as before. The heartbeat in my chest started picking up again, and the thought of visiting the 'loo' to wash up and pull myself together suddenly came to mind. It led me to wander down a corridor, knowing that it'd lead to the second-floor balcony observing the ballroom, and then the foyer where the bathrooms were. During the short journey, I'd glance between the end of the corridor and the rest of the Venetian mirrors. The way I moved down the hallway and investigated them made me feel like a cub trapped in a maze of reflections.

Except, something happened. Each time I jogged past a mirror, a shimmering image caught the corner of my vision. It felt like watching my reflection transform. My form and species never changed, but my clothes did. The tacky Union Jack t-shirt I'd purchased on impulse during the first night in London became a dark-green jacket. The comfortable jean shorts I brought with me from America became matching black trousers, and the sneakers were polished shoes.

Further proof I was losing my mind.

For a moment, I also thought I'd spotted something happen with each change, but it might've been another trick of mind. Behind me, I'd caught glimpses of a dog in similar clothes, either a ridgeback or a hound. He was extremely old with graying splotches of fur, giving me a death glare to end all death glares. It happened so quickly, between my hallucinations and running, it never fully registered into my brain until seconds later.

Certain things were bound to happen during a nervous breakdown though. Sometimes, a crowd of unsympathetic onlookers might simply watch it unfold. Sometimes, an onlooker would feel compelled to record it for views on YouTube. Sometimes, the opposite could occur where an onlooker notices the troubled mammal and intervenes. Rarely, it might involve a chance meeting that prevents that mammal from emotionally falling over the metaphorical edge.

In my case, it came down to the latter. In my case, that coincidental Samaritan came in the form of a random figure at the foot of the stairs, spotting me the moment I spotted him.

It was the English beagle from the portrait. He stood down there, at the foot of the stairs, as if he'd been plucked from the portrait and stood in modern clothes like me.

"Huh?" I gasped. "What the...? It's you."

He spoke in disbelief, "It's...you too."

All noise and thought fell silent. Those piercing, dark eyes stared up at me in confusion, then held the same foreign sense of familiarity I'd been experiencing the previous hour. Between us, the only things moving were our trembling fingers clutching onto the marble railing, as well as our hesitant breathing as tourists walked by us.

Our eyes met, and the feeling of déjà vu became stronger than ever. I'd met this man long before I saw the painting of him adorning the wall of the estate. He'd seen me too, from the way his expression changed when our focus was locked on each other.

The stranger smiled, and my heart skipped a beat, and another. I slowly walked down the stairs, with each step causing a warm sensation of nostalgia and familiarity to envelope my body.

"I think I know you," we both said.