It was a little over a month since Amelia had found herself oddly displaced on the island. Not one to let the dust settle around her as she pined for what was, she took action. Unfortunately, most of that action had limited results.
Every where she went for help, she received the same non-committal answers. How she was so lucky to be here, that she was in "no danger, ma'am, we assure you", or blank looks. Oddly, everyone she went to seemed to know her name and would nod knowingly at her questions. But on an island, she supposed new arrivals stuck out, and people gossiped. What really ruffled her feathers was hearing time and again that there was nothing that could be done to send her home, and that the Management's decisions were final, but she was welcome to take it up with them.
Trouble was, no one could tell her where to actually find the Management. Amelia had finally procured an appointment with Mr. Jones, only to be told the same things. No one saw the management. She was not a prisoner, she was a guest, he insisted. He told her of all the wonderful amenities the island offered- again. She'd left the meeting in a sort of frustrated resignation.
Back in her room, she began to pace. It seemed she was stuck here, and she had better make the best of it until she figured out how to get off the island.
How worried Emerson and Ramses must be! How she missed the beloved sands and skies of Egypt! Not to mention this constant idleness that did not suit Amelia's nature.
That's when it struck her. Her time here was her own, they kept insisting. They also said that while she lived in the resort, everything was paid for her. Everything. That would not do. It would not do at all. If she was to be stuck on this island, Amelia refused to be indebted by some mysterious persons who supposedly weren't her captors. She would get a job, and find her own housing. Determined she would not spend anymore than was necessary until that was accomplished (despite the newly replenished wardrobe- one did need something to do between appointments), Amelia grabbed her parasol and headed out the doors.
As she raised the parasol, planning to open it against the sun's rays, she spotted someone on the beach. A woman, young from the looks of her, and acting in a way Amelia understood all too well.
Another one!
Dropping the parasol in order to use it for stability on the sand, Amelia began to make her way over, grateful for the trousers it was now acceptable for women to wear. Slacks, she reminded herself, they called women's pants slacks. She got just close enough to overhear the woman's question.
"Your grandfather didn't do this." Not unless he's one of the management that own this place, she thought to herself, in which case she would very much like to speak with him herself. But no, she had the same look Amelia had had on the day she arrived. Poor thing.