Jump to new as of June 21, 2000
Part 1
How does it go?
"It is a truth universally acknowledged that..."
No, not this time.
Oh, yes.
"Once upon a time..."
The hour before dawn is a silent hour, where the air is still masked with that shade of mystery, which comes with night. It gives a velvety feeling, as if you walk on silk and swim through romance. If you are quiet enough, you can hear night slowly retreat to her sphere, as morning gently dances into the countryside. Dawn is a fairy who rejuvenates. It is said that if you ever see Dawn herself, you will be blessed with eternal youth. However, Dawn is elusive. The only evidences of her existence are the paintings she leaves in the sky at sunrise, and the crystal dewdrops that fall from her glimmering necklaces, onto the grasses. Others say that they are tears, in the sadness that she is eternally separated from her sister, Twilight.
Danielle Benot has been known to tell the second. It seems more realistic to her.
Hardly anyone is up at this hour. There is a dark calmness across the land. The only light is the light from dying gypsy fires and the golden morning that comes from the east.
There is a gentle breeze at this hour, tripping along elegantly, and dancing in circles about the cool grass, and dipping into ponds, as if bathing herself. She picks up the scent of Dawn's perfume, and spreads it throughout the lands.
But there is hardly anyone awake who would smell it anyway.
No one, except the young woman who comes presently walking through the forest clearing. Her hair is dark and long, the rich, dark color of brooks. It curls at the ends, and waves at the middles. Presently it frames a delicate pale face, blackened by dirt and soot. Her dark eyelashes fan across her slightly rose cheeks as she tries to take in Dawn's fragrance one last time, before the breeze takes it away entirely. As she finally opens her eyes, the morning's golden greeting in the east reflects in her romantically expressive violet eyes.
Perhaps she'd be prettier if she wore prettier dresses.
But she wears the only dress she owns. It is now muddied with Earth and soot. Its sleeves are worn almost thin, and there are ripped seams, and ripped hems. There are patches for holes in patches.
But she walks with an elegance to give reverence to the fairy court that hides about her. Her carriage, her expression, all contribute to the great wonder she feels, at seeing her father's forests so early in the morning.
She feels that he might be around here, somewhere.
She comes to a stump where she remembers her father had once cut down a tree, and she gently places the empty basket to the ground, and she sits, to look up into the canopy of trees.
Can she hear his voice now? Can she ever hear his voice again?
No... her question is answered in the wind.
Across the kingdom, there blows a wind, that can travel in the smallest cracks of rooms, and sweeps everywhere through the kingdom. It travels through the smallest of servants quarters to the highest towers of palaces.
It creeps into the mouths of castles, and breathes across the floor, and walls.
There is a wind this morning, this sunrise, for the young man who sits at the floor of his balcony, leaning back against the castle wall, can feel it, traveling even into his blood.
The wind lightly traces the royal seal that is embroidered on his shirt, embroidered in his mind.
He asks himself questions which he does not know answers to. A duty before anything else? Before, he has always seen his life as ending on that day his father would die.
His father is still in excellent health, which pleases everyone, especially him.
Because he does not wish for the crown. He does not wish for the obligations and duties his father speaks to him of.
He does not wish to marry the Princess of Spain.
He does not wish to marry.
But he has lived in a life where he has learned to give up is own happiness. He has learned to sacrifice himself for the happiness of his family, for his father.
But now, he wonders whether it is worth it.
What of his dreams? His life?
He wishes for a life. Up to now, he has only experienced something that remotely resembles a dead world. Everything in his world moves as if by ancient scripture, as if there has been a plan, all along, that the people are destined to follow.
But he does not see it this way. No, never. There must be some way to break out of the dreary monotony of life. There must be this elusive treasure which he seeks. Nothing can be written in the book of life, for only he can decide what to do with it, can't he? Isn't that the way it is supposed to be?
That's the way he wishes it would be.
Twenty years now, from the day he was born, he has known that in the end, the propriety and necessity of his ascension to the throne would overcome any other possible thing that would happen in his life.
He has never once tried to stand his own. Because he has been afraid. For his father, his mother, and his family, he has continued to stand, and let the world pass him by, let life fly away.
But now, he still wonders if such a choice was correct.
The shadow climbs the castle tower by the ivy-laced walls.
Sunlight is now an enemy as the shadow struggled to fight its way up, through the ivy.
The black cloak billows in the wind, and the hood is clutched to head, not allowing a face to be revealed. Strong hands push on the stone and the climb is made rather quickly.
Fighting gravity, and the tension in its nerves, the shadow reaches for brick after brick, not thinking of when it would end, but only of each brick. If one stone can be vanquished, then another can be as well, and another.
Stone after stone, and the destination would be reached...
Not looking behind, not looking forward, stone for stone, the climber scales the wall.
Finally, a ledge is reached, and hands push the body forward into the balcony, and the body relaxes, letting the tension in the muscles go. For a moment, the shadow simply lies, looking up at the sky, which is now a light rose quartz, streaked through with fire and sunlight.
The tower has been vanquished.
A smile spreads across the lips of the climber. Triumph. Content.
A white hand, now shaking with exhaustion, reaches up to take the hood, and pulls it back.
Glittering sea blue eyes take in the light. Golden waves of silken hair ripple in the torrent of wind. The climber sits up against the wall, and looks out into sunrise. It is a spectacular sight. It always has been a spectacular sight.
She never misses the sunrise.
The kitchen of le Chateau is filled with the bustling of life everyday just after dawn. Currently there stands a woman, hefty, in her fifties, who is cooking eggs for her mistresses. She moves with the efficiency of experience. Her hair falls gently from her loose braid and the cloth she wears over her hair. Her hands hurt as she realizes that her bones are not what they used to be. Fear is a weed that grows deep within herself. Fear that the mistress will notice, and send her away, like she had done to so many others before.
But there is a girl to stay here for. She has to stay to take care of the girl, or else the girl will be neglected and forgotten entirely as a human being, but rather remembered as a dog would be.
The girl comes in currently. She is somewhat tall, and her face reflects certain gravity. Her matured eyes are dark in a mixture of regret and sadness.
Marie ignores though. It is best to be this way.
Danielle quickly collects her thoughts for the day. The hour of silence is over, and time to think is now done.
It is time to look forward now. It is time to begin a new day.
The day begins slowly, as the courtiers start dressing in their silks, satins. Glimmering petals of exotic flowers are crushed, as the fragrance is lightly dabbed behind ears. Diamonds, and other glittering adornments are draped around powdered necks.
A beauty with eyes of sapphire and hair of chocolate currently gusts into a hallway, with one word on her lips. "Cinderella!"
Danielle runs from her position of preparing breakfast with Marie to find Carolina.
The girl is impatient, her powdered face is already blushed with impatience.
Danielle deliberately takes her time, brushing soot from her dress onto the floor as she comes along.
Part 2
The hallways of the Chateau de Avignon are grand, large, and echo the whispers of gossiping ladies, flirting courtiers, and frustrated nobles. The marble echoes those steps taken in anger, in joy, in sadness, reflecting tones in color, in attitude. The halls are decorated, finely ornamented with crests of the royal family, velvet curtains, belaced tables, decked with romantic candles, elegant lamps.
The Princess Gabrilla D'Arcy, of France, named after a Spanish ancestor, yawns, her eyelids fluttering close over sapphire blue eyes, which reflect placid boredom. The court is wanting excitement, she reflects, a hand reaching into her hair, and coiling a golden curl about her finger. Her brother looks at her in disapproval, and she unhands the curl out of deference to him, while muttering under her breath. He does not possess in that body a bone of humor or pleasantry.
There is sunlight outdoors, dancing far away from her, smiling tauntingly at her. She wishes that she were not here, but among fairies and gypsies, and people of substance. Around the court, the superficial laces and expensive trims of gowns mean nothing to her. She sighs softly, so softly that no one can perceive it, save her brother.
Prince William, named after a good English lord who once saved his father's life, frowns at his sister. For Propriety's sake... His crown is heavily set on his head, and his thoughts are heavy of gravity. He cannot think of anything this present moment but impending doom.
The fanfare. Bright, obnoxious, piercing the ears of the unsuspecting. Gabby is thrown awake, and looks about herself confusedly. She finally collects herself as the doors are thrown open.
A woman of silvering hair, rich velvet and gold encrusted gowns, enters. Her majesty Catalina de los Burgos, the Queen of Spain, enters. Following her is a dark, pale woman, of sickly constitution and sour countenance. Her name is Angelina, or Ana. La Princesa Ana de los Burgos.
Noon is a noisy hour, of toil and trade. The tradesmen, with carts decked with fabrics, golds, and other goods chant into the air their bargains of fine objects from a "far off place". The shoppers, servants out on errands, middle-class mothers, housekeepers all collide in a mosaic of activity, class and color. Farmers roll wheelbarrows into town, bundles of fruits, harvested at the pinnacle of their ripeness, filled with the bounty of promised health and serenity.
Captain Richárd Fillipe, captain of the royal guard, enjoys this time of day the most. He enjoys the bustle of the day, the noise, the color. He appreciates the livelihood of much happy company, which the ornate, elegant halls of Chateau de Avignon do not offer.
The cheerful chants of the daily sale chorus about him, and he feels a simple rush of excitement at being surrounded by such energy. Smiling, his step is lighter, as he looks to the lord he escorts today, an Englishman, whose father Prince William was named after. "Monsieur Bingley, and how do you find France?"
"It is exceedingly divine!" he exclaims, a brilliant smile, a twinkle of the eye reflects the young man's good nature. The sun reflects off his golden locks, forming a soft gentle halo around an angelic face, with eyes the hue of the heavens on midsummer's afternoon.
"This is the countryside's finest hour," Richárd muses. "The people are all busy, hearts with smiles as some leisurely, and some hurriedly sell their goods, the goods of hard workers. The people here are exceedingly hard workers, all of good hearts, strong constitutions; there is no sorrow they have not faced," Richárd finished sadly.
Charles Bingley, Lord of the estate Netherfield, smiles to his companion. "The people seem uncommonly strong and admirable."
"Yes, they are."
"I think I should enjoy France very much."
"I hope you do, sir," the Captain smiled, as he gestured towards the palace. "But alas, the court demands your presence, and I give you leave to enjoy the country when we have time, but as for now, we must attend to your duty."
Lord Bingley smiled. "Of course."
The flowers danced, swaying and bowing to the gentle spring breeze. The sun was high in the air, warding clouds away from the sky. The air was crisp, and energized. Birds calls danced in the air, bright and lighthearted calls, calling to sun and joy. There was the smell of a fresh forest, and stream.
Two dirtied ivory feet, small, looking as if formed of porcelain, dipped into the cool water, as hands reached down to caress away grime, and ache. It is still mid afternoon, and yet, she is so tired. Her sleeves fall down her arm, as she once more attempts, unsuccessfully to push the sleeve up her arm, and make it stay. Upset, she gives up, allowing her sleeves to wet, and brings the crystal cool substance to her face, to bathe the heated, sunburnt cheeks in it.
Her sigh lilts in the air, drifting like a flower petal, as she closes her eyes, imagines a breeze dancing on her wet cheeks, and lies back into the tall grass of the riverbank.
She opens her eyes, watching soft wisps, tendrils of clouds glide elegantly across the sky. Elegance, and grace, in the courts of Heaven. Such riches are beyond her imagination.
She remembers a time when she had lain at this spot, next to her father, a strong, man, of large build, and of large heart. She felt his smile, next to hers, as he chattered on about the strange comings and goings of the ancient fairy folk, or the strange people he'd come to meet in his travels, the exotic spices he'd tasted, the ideas of people, the way they acted with each other; the strange little customs she'd loved to hear about the most.
Sighing, she realizes she's been away for too long, and before long, one of her stepsisters will be out to hunt for her. She sits up, and reaches for the basket besides her, where she has placed all the wildflowers she has been sent to gather, so that le Chateau may impress the prince, if the case may present itself that the prince would spontaneously visit a small estate outside of his Castle and town.
Rolling her eyes, she cannot imagine why he, of all people would deign to witness the lives outside of his castle; Prince William, who had not stirred outside his town for leisurely reasons since he was but a boy! His family, who never considered the business of their people business that they, the rulers, should care about!
If she could just meet him, just once, she vows, in her mind, she would never let him escape unscathed.
The sun is setting now, the sky is dimming while painting fairies darken the skies, letting pink scarf dances dwindle at the edges, in the land of eternal gold and sun. The moon is pale now, a sliver against the velvet background.
Stars unveil themselves from cloaks of daylight. They will glimmer across the skies, as if they were spilt carelessly across the skies, by some fairy prophet, trying to divine her fate.
Extending her arms, embracing the sky, she sighs, and spins about, dancing to faint melodies that have drifted from festivities below her, in the streets. She hears the elegant ballroom music downstairs, and groans as she hears a knock on the door.
"Who is it?" she sighs, exasperated.
"It is William."
She sighs. Her ever so proper brother. She just wishes that he would just forget duty, and hang obligations. She wishes he would be impulsive, would sneak out for the night. She wishes he would do so many things, but alas, he does not. Because he has deluded himself into thinking that he cannot.
He enters currently, tall, handsome, lacking dash and charm, though; he possesses a grim countenance. He never enjoys anything; does he never escape?
He observes that his sister is still in her petticoat, and half dressed. He sighs, exasperated. She never has learned the responsibility that his parents and he have wished she would. He knows of her nightly outings. He has seen her escape, as he mulls over his trapped existence at late hours. He has seen her climb up the towers at twilight, worrying that one day she will slip, and break her neck. He has worried that one day, she will be caught outside of the castle. He has worried so much about her; she seems too wild to be tamed for court. Too wild to be tamed to an existence that would limit her freedoms.
And he hopes, deep in his heart, that she will keep her life this way. That she will thrive, and prove the court, and himself wrong; that obligations can be overcome by joys.
Another part of him hates her; hates her for abandoning the position, leaving it to him. He feels bad that she feels trapped into her life, but when has he not? And he does not escape every night as she does. No escape for him. Propriety always. He feels bitter at times, and sometimes resentful of his sister, who fails to see him. Sometimes he is angry with her, a burning, seething emotion he continues to hide within, for the sake of propriety.
He sometimes wonders at what would happen if he did express himself.
"You're late," he simply says, as he feels something boil once more inside him; frustration. He turns away, and escapes the room.
Dusk. The sky has almost finished dimming, and soon, there will be darkness across the land, save for the warm fires, where the tired, the happy, the content, the poor will gather around, in their small homes. There will be gypsy festivals, danced the an enchanted flame tonight. There will be rejoicing, there will be mourning. There will be life. Se la vie.
Her stepmother and stepsisters enjoy an evening meal upstairs, as Danielle takes her place in front of the fire, across a table from Marie. She smiles softly to the older woman.
Marie looks at the girl, with admiration, as she always does, at her beauty, which continues to shine through her dirtied cheeks, her poverty. She's got a surprising amount of humor, for being trapped for so many years in her position. The ashes by her bed wander into her hair, and soot her cheeks. She has not had a new dress in years.
She sits there, with a smile as sparkling as the one she had when she was a girl, dancing around, and getting more elegant dresses dirty with mud. When she was a careless, flitty thing, all dreams and happiness, dancing around the fields as if they were clouds, smiling about as if the sun always beamed down at her, even at night. She sees that warmth in her girl; even now, after the last twelve years of hardening life, Danielle retains that enigmatic smile which she has always had.
"I imagine the fairies are dressing for festivities now," Danielle says.
Her voice is dulcet, with fancies woven in the rich tones. Happiness, and ironic contentment saturates her tones, tones of all colors and flavors. Her eyes sparkle, and glaze; the way they always do when she thinks of the mystical, the magical.
"Don't you ever wish they'd stay in our world, instead of behind the glass, on the other side of the mountain, other side of the water..." she imagines, as her faces falls slightly. "I wish there were still fairies...and fairy tales, and gallant princes. But the time for those stories are now long past," she smiles sadly to Marie.
This is the closest she ever comes to sadness. Always, when in dusky hours, Danielle spins a story of fairies and dragons, and happy endings, concluding with the conclusion that such occurrences never happen anymore, that the age of those stories is gone, with the last toll of the fairy clock.
Her eyes now become distant, as if she is remembering her father, who used to tell her these stories, who used to sit up with her now, reading books with her. She remembers him now, as she always does every evening, at around this time, when sadness seems to be an inevitable blanket over all. It warps her in ironic cold, as she feels alone, for the first time that day, save for the morning.
Marie stands up now, recognizing Danielle's expression for desired solitariness. Some time later, she might come to Marie in her bed, like she used to, and cry a little, and hug her. But lately, Danielle seems to get stronger, as she never comes to the bed now, save for the check on Marie.
"Bon soir..." she says, thinking that the girl hears her.
Staring up at the heavens, he tosses another plea into the night air, into the traveling breeze, as he does every night.
Let me find myself...let me find my happiness...and live it.
He urgently recites, over and over in his mind, a message repeated so often that it is engraved in mind. It has been exuded in all his actions, recently. He tries to search for joy in his actions, but finds none. He has searched, so desperately, clinging onto the remotest probability of something that he has enjoyed. It has been fruitless so far, and he is growing more restless everyday, and every night, when he can't sleep for thinking and wishing so much.
He relaxes his muscles, relaxes his mind, as he closes his eyes, leaning his head back against the wall, letting his worries flow from him, letting the wind caress them away, leaving him in the dreamless slumber he has only been able to achieve out on his balcony, where his worries can be wrestled away from him.
The wind is full of something tonight, she feels. There is some pleasure, laughter, warm cinnamon smiles, but there is an underlying chill of dark brooding sadness. She feels it in her heart, as it strikes a chord she knows to well. She feels comforted that there is one out who feels her sadness as well, however.
The sky is dark velvet now, as the breeze continues to surround her. The feeling is almost dreamlike, as she feels that if she reached for those jewels in the sky, she could touch their coolness, among the soft velvet.
He heavens seem so much closer now than they do at daylight. Perhaps this is why she misses her father most at these hours, when she has finished washing the dishes, and brushing her stepmother's, and stepsisters' hair. When she is done closing the house.
It is only her outside now, looking up into the infinity. The house behind her is dark, save for the fire in the kitchen where sooty blankets are already laid out for the last occupant of the house. The fire beckons now, but she turns to the sky once more, and wishes joy for that lost person. She wishes that suffering person well, and whispers "I love you" to her father, knowing the wind to be her messenger, that her wishes will be carried out. She then turns, and enters the house, ready to read into late hours.
Part 3
The market. Vegetables upon vegetables, colored of rainbows and Earth's paintbrushes, piled in an old cart, jostled with each step the old mare makes on the uneven cobblestone and dirt roads. Danielle guides the mare, whispering messages and smuggling a carrot to the worker now and again.
The streets are cluttered as more people gather. The day is quickly rushing to climax, and Danielle is determined to make sales today. With her stepmother's overindulgent expenditures on luxuries, le Chateau cannot afford to come home with only half of the cart sold away.
Sounds tumble and clutter against each other, as children's careless delight collides with beggar's prayers. The scuffle of fabric as the wind blows cart curtains, capes of wealthy merchants. The wooden clatter of the wheels against the roads. The shouts of the bargains of the day, each bargain making her heart beat heavier; she cannot sell her vegetables for so little. How is she to compete with such low prices?
She looks next to her, to Marie, who knows Danielle's thoughts, ascertained by a simple look in the eye. Marie simply continues to sit at the front of the cart, revealing no notion of anything.
"Ah...Danielle..." The tones slither through the air, imbued in some darkness that makes Danielle shiver and gather herself. She shrugs off the discomfort, and stands up without hesitation, and smiles, with a bite that sinks into ice and melts it. "Monsieur d'Guillerme," she tosses. I thought I heard a rat squeal around here...
Toady of the court, his lazy eyes and clammy skin emanate an air of slimy chill. As she hands him a basket, filled with the same request he makes every week, he makes sure to brush his fingers against hers, making her shudder with want to wash her hands a thousand times in the stream water.
Colin d'Guillerme purposely changes that reaction in his mind from disgust to pleasure, and smiles at her, making her frown all the more. He turns around, and walks away, whistling.
She swears under her breath. If he didn't buy so much of their produce each week, she would have made sure he'd wear it, over his fine clothes and slimy paws!
The tediousness is a tight string wrapped around the room, many times. It is stretched so thin and so tightly that it might snap into explosion of sound. Drones of trivial affairs she cares not to indulge in thicken the air until she feels it is dense enough in the room so that if she tried moving through it, it would be like swimming.
Reaching into her collar to adjust the choking fabric, she contemplates that cacophonic chaos would be preferable to this dull affair, which seems to have lasted the whole day.
She imagines it out there now; like a gust of fresh air, she feels a second wind simply by dreaming of it. She closes her eyes...
Pain in her side. She winces, but covers her expression, as she has learned very well from her family. Her eyes unbutton as she glares at her brother, who has interrupted her daydreams with an elbow in her side.
How does she just forget? How does she let go of all these important words around her, and how does she not realize that her listening to them, and reflecting upon them, and deciding upon them is crucial the outcome of many lives? He never forgets this, though he has tried...several times, to his mortification and embarrassment. He wonders if escaping just once would result in such an enviable position.
Envy? Does he really envy her? Is he allowed to have such longings? And what if he is? Who is to worry about these things, if not him? No, there is no logic to these dangerous, seductive thoughts.
But that sun, outside, smiles, and dances enticingly. With sweat on his brow, he resists, as he turns to focus on the next order of business, the next step to take...
Sighing, she finishes with the dishes, and looks to the window to see the sun almost setting. The evening meal will be served soon.
Meanwhile, fairies would be adorning themselves with sashes of rose petal satin, and gowns of moonsilk. They would wear beads of stardiamond, imported from distant stars. Sapphires, stolen from the heart of the ocean. Emeralds, harvested from the centers of trees. Rubies, from the farthest reaches of sunset. Pearls, harvested from the moon. Silver filigree taken from snowflakes would be woven into scarves and shawls.
"Cinderella!" A cry that would make banshees shiver cracks the calm hour, and she is jolted form fairy ruminations.
Undoubtedly Carolina. Sigh heavy on her breath, eyes rolled, she pushes herself away from the kitchen, and forces herself to walk up the polished staircase, down the long mopped halls, and into the farthest room down the west wing.
Carolina de Valencia, of olive skin, and fiery eyes. Her long dark, wavy hair is now pulled down, running a smooth satin eating light into seductive darkness. She is elegant, but not graceful. In her walk, and manner, there is a knowledge of her Spanish beauty. There is no naiveté when she looks into the eyes of others. There is a powerful knowledge that weaves spells over courtiers.
"You called, sister?"
Carolina cringes at the word. Ah yes, sister. Since her mother had married that tonto ten years ago. And dragged her from their beautiful home in Spain to here, a lowly, slummy hard life, where she has to work at her looks more hours than not!
Danielle is the evidence, the symbol of that "unpleasant mistake", as Carolina is fond of calling her. She has tried, time and again, to break her, punish her for all the grief that Danielle's father has caused. She blames all her hardship on Danielle.
That Danielle remains spirited, that she does not feel pain, or know it, upsets Carolina. That she can get up every morning, before dawn, and walk with that smile, as if she were far from here infuriates her. That Danielle escapes in her mind makes Carolina all the more determined to break her down, and chain her to the reality.
Danielle, with evidences of just emerging from dreaming on her face. Carolina stomps forward, grabs her arm, long lacquered nails digging into skin. Danielle feels the bite, but hides her wince; she does not let Carolina gain upper hand, in anything.
Carolina, of the slim figure, of the beautiful eyes, of the rosebud mouth is twisted, shrewish and bitter. Because of that, Danielle has no reason to envy her. In her mind, she pictures her own riches; a life that allows her freedom to do what she wants, and the dream of the possibilities.
Disgusted with Cinderella's escape from reality once more, her beautifully formed mouth pouts into mortification. That Danielle, be happy, and far away and dreaming, now! She slaps the girl out of her reverie.
Sting. Her sunburnt cheeks cry in pain. She will not. Danielle's eyes flash, and her hand would have reached for her cheek, if not for her stepsister's eyes. She meets them in equal challenge, refusing to acknowledge that such would merit any response. She is above her.
Her face reddens with anger. Cinderella above her? She is tempted to show the lowly servant her true place, but decides to leave it for another time. She turns away to face her reflection, and smiles at the contrast between the golden class of her looks, her air, as compared to the tempered poor soot of Danielle's cheeks. The image comforts her, and she looks into Danielle's eyes in the mirror.
Those eyes. The eyes that must have belonged to Danielle's mother. No amount of soot, dirt, or poverty or mischance can cloud them. Anger simply makes the lavender darken into a passionate violet fire, almost dark as night.
The air about the girl is odd, as if the world were aware of her injustice, a fairy queen placed in disguise, masquerading as a simple commoner. Angered at the girl's beauty, Carolina's contemptuous smile disappears, and she turns around to face the girl in person.
"You called?" Danielle repeats, making the words cool as they slide from lips to air, blowing out her anger, breathing in calm. Her heart slows, as she hears it. A smile almost appears on her face.
Carolina's face screws into grimace, and she turns away, frustrated, having forgotten the menial task that she had summoned the girl in the first place. "You're dismissed." She will be broken, she vows, turning away, looking back into the mirror, brushing her comb through her satin locks.
Danielle leaves the room, triumphant, but tired. Emotions waging war, she tumbles into her spot by the fire, feeling no wish to read tonight, to forget. She cannot forget.
What has happened to make this so? When does she have to do this, and withstand tortures of her stepsister?
Years ago, in a time that seems to be dancing on a cloud far away, she was her father's little princess. Tears.
Salt in her mouth to fight bitterness that has developed in her mouth. She inhales, and exhales. Her limbs relax as she lies back on the cold floor, by the fire which is now starting to die away. Closes her eyes, trying to close herself to the loneliness.
Dawn is a demon, fighting the shadows across the land.
Danielle breaths the cool air in, breathes out, forgetting the night's sorrow, the night's loneliness. It is day light. She will find comfort in light, and she will not be alone.
She wanders through the forest, collecting apples off the soft, damp floor. The light is sifting through trees in the east, and she enjoys it readily.
Though she knows that at this hour, she would be the most alone in the day, she does not feel lonely at this hour.
No one could feel sad right now, with light sifting in.
She sighs, and sits on her stump, the very stump she had cried on not so many mornings ago, but today, she does not long for anyone.
She repeats her promise to herself, to live her life to the best of her ability, to live without regret. She closes her eyes, concentrates, opens them once more, and smiles to the world.
She heads back to her home, ready to take on another day.
Pounding against the dirt...the rumble of a horse's gallop, from her father's stables.
Her eyes narrow eastward, towards her home.
A shadow emerging, trying to gain control of the horse.
Her lips thin into a line, eyes fire in red anger as she breaths into the air: "Oh no you don't..."
She runs towards the rider, letting go of the apron, which carries her morning's harvest. They fall down to the grass, and her eyes light as she reaches for one, and takes aim.
The rider falls to the ground with the first blow. The second apple knocks the shoulder, as he attempts to get up.
The third ensures the shadow is firmly bottomed.
The shadow jumps up, waving cloaks back, revealing the seal emblazoned on the chest.
Her eyes widen. Her mouth drops. Oh what has she done?
"Your highness!" she falls to the floor of morning, dawn's light highlighting the gold threads of the royal crest, emblazoned in her mind.
He knew something wrong would happen.
Why did he even bother? Even consider it possible?
Looking now at the form sprawled on the ground before him, his heart quivers nervously.
"I apologize, your highness," she says softly, almost above whisper. Life. She wants to go without punishment. Sure, she'd wish all sorts of evil on the prince, but never expected anything to come of it!
And here she is, in the most horrid spectacle! Her life is in his hands!
Face pale with anger and humiliation, she awaits his words.
He looks at her tentatively. He has control of the situation?
But of course!
Immediately, his heart soars. He has the hand. He can get out of this one!
He straightens his cloak, and looks at the girl kneeling before him. "It's...it's quite all right," he says, carefully.
"I did not see you..." she elaborates.
"Your aim would suggest otherwise..." he laughs softly, almost bitterly, as he brings hand to swollen bump on forehead.
She is surprised. He laughs? The Prince laughs? Danielle looks up, unafraid. The laugh is beautifully full, that warms the blood, that resonates in the smallest corner of any heart, setting every grain of soul in rhythm with it, laughing with that same satiation, same happiness. A voice of enchantment. She looks at him in pure astonishment and curiosity. The Prince? A man with such powers?
Lord, he is handsome! Her heart fumbles over and over...never before in her life has she seen anyone so beautiful! The way his dark hair is tossed, combed by the wind. The eyes that glimmer with a pale blue shade that seemed the color of sky, just before sunset began. They reflect a halfway happiness now. There is...a shade of apprehension in him. In fact, as she looks at him...
He stops laughing.
Those eyes. Twilight's soul is in those eyes. They are witch's eyes. There is an ethereal air about her. It seems wrong that she bows before him. There is in her something that makes him think of her presiding over fairy courts, ruling over enchanted realms.
He clears his throat uncomfortably. The girl scares him! Surprising...
Danielle hardly knows what to think. There is a look of hooded mysteriousness in his gaze. What used to be humor now just as quickly vanishes; she realizes why the people of the court want to make him happy. His laugh, and probably his smile, if he would just smile to prove this theory, makes others happy, by some force. "W-what's going to happen to me?"
He almost laughs again. By all the courts in the world! Does she actually think he is going to have her killed? Is he that intimidating?
And yet, he is nervous; he knows he shouldn't have run off last night; he didn't want to run away at the time, and even now, he has every intention of going back to the palace. He'd never let himself go through with running away. He just wanted to get away, if only for an evening. When he had left his room the previous evening, he'd thought he'd get through unscathed.
Now, he realizes, he won't; he'd have a bump on his forehead. Only the bump, though...
She wouldn't tell anyone if...
"Nothing, unless you really wish it," he replies, attempting to sound indifferent to the matter. "For your silence," he drops a pouch of gold coins at her figure.
Danielle looks at him, almost confused. "That's it?"
"Yes," he says softly. "That's all..."
He feels uncomfortable now, having just paid off a servant. Not just any servant...a witch with eyes of magic. If he were superstitious, he might feel nervous. He quickly mounts the horse, and retreats into his thoughts, preparing himself to reenter his previous person, his life.
She watches the figure ride away on her father's horse. There is a sting of regret in losing the horse that her father had groomed for so many years. And in exchange, what has she received?
She looks at her hands that handle a leather pouch. When he'd thrown it so carelessly to her, she'd heard the weight of many gold coins.
As she opens the pouch, she smiles, and thanks the fairies for luck and fortune. With enthusiasm, she runs towards the house.
Her brother looks almost rumpled today.
Looking curiously at him, she smiles cautiously. "Bonjour," she pleasantly recites.
He looks back at her nervously, and scans the court. Does she know? Do they all know?
In an action so unlike himself, he fiddles with his collar. It does not go unnoticed by Gabby, who then decides to be on her best behavior today.
"William," she asks softly, innocuously, "Whatever is the matter with you? Did you not get a good night's rest?"
William almost starts at these words. She can't know, can she?
The kitchen is hot with activity and breakfast. Stuffed with sizzles, saturated with savory smells. Crisp morning air seeps through the room, and the emerging sunlight slips past the dirty curtains that want mending. The light crowns the elderly Marie, who stands, mixing a batter, with skilled hands.
The doors swing open unceremoniously, as a girl dances in, twirling her dirtied skirts as if they were made of silks. She giggles, unfettered in her joy, hands open to the sunlight, grabbing onto the gold, and taking it into her heart, bathing her soul in the delight of morning.
"And did the sun rise in the East?" Marie teases the girl.
Danielle's eyes sparkle with a glimmer has been too long absent; the violet orbs glow with energy, charged with happiness. "Yes, it did, Marie!" she throws the contents of a pouch across the counter. "And it is going to be a beautiful day!"
They spill out in a stream of the golden happiness the girl has been collecting. Glimmering in the light, glittering in their fresh, dreamy magical presence. It is as if in that strange fairy dance, she has managed to capture the sun, and crystallize it in a spell. How did she do it? "Where did these come from?"
"An angel called Fortune!" she laughed, kissing the old Marie on the cheek. "And I know exactly what I'm going to do with them!"
"You aren't!?!" Marie gasps.
"If my stepmother will sell Madeline's husband to pay off our debts, this gold will surely be able to bring him back to us!"
"Oh my darling girl!" she embraces the girl.
"I'll have to move fast, though..." Danielle utters, coming down slightly from her cloud. Looking out the window. "The day is come. They will sell him today..."
"Cinderella!" The shrill cry of her stepsister reverberated in every corner of the kitchen.
"Oh! Hide them, dear! Or she'll take them away from you!" Marie tucks the pouch in the pocket of Danielle's apron. "Now hurry along, before she gets upset!"
"I asked for one three minute egg, not three one minute eggs, and where in G-d's name is our bread!"
The last words echo in the large elegant rooms.
The morning's golden classicism does not affect the three occupants of the room. They are oblivious to the effects of the magics of perfect sunrises. The light tickles the windows, creating rainbows that dance on the polished floors. And the colors are all invisible to the eyes that focus on the voice which has scratched through morning's peaceful and poetic sonnet.
"Carolina...what have I told you before?" Lady Flor de Valencia scolds.
"A lady ought never raise her voice about the sound of a whispering wind..."
"Carlota?"
Carlota de Valencia, the last occupant of the table, focuses her soft eyes on her mother in expectation. They are the same shade as her sister's, but there is a loveliness to hers that Carolina cares not for; it is the loveliness of compassion.
"Yes, mother?"
"I was talking to Carolina," she reprimands, coldly.
"But..." Carlota's voice trails off into the silence of the cold morning.
"I was being resonant," Carolina asserts, turning her curls over her shoulder, focusing her glimmering, churning eyes to her mother. "A courtier knows the difference."
"I doubt they'd understand your style of resonance in court..."
Silence. Caroline muses. "I won't go to court, Mother, will I? None of us will. Only some Spanish pig they have the nerve to call a princess."
"Nothing is final until you're dead," Flor states. "And even then I'm sure God negotiates."
"Good morning!" An enthusiasm of life infused in the tones, sunlight dancing in the spirit of her eyes. "And how are all of you this morning?"
"Someone's being reading by the fire again," Carolina sneers at the dirty apron.
Danielle ignores her, as she continues to pour water into the cups.
"Some people read because they cannot think for themselves!" Lady Flor states, derisively. "Oh what can I do to actually get you to try?" she whines.
"I do try," Danielle mutters as she walks away.
"No! Too small!"
Yet another brooch denied.
Richárd Fellipe sighs, as he turns from the window and looks at the girl, fingering the dress delicately. She is his closest friends from youth, when he was still a young servant's son. "You're sure that Lady Jane wouldn't mind?"
"No, Lady Jane Bennet is a kind woman; her family and mine are close, as I passed most of my childhood with her in England. She's very kind."
Danielle takes the dress. "I'll wear it then," she resolves, as she moves to another room to change. "Keep watch, while I do this. I want to leave without they're seeing me when I leave."
"They're buying a brooch," he says, loudly to the other room.
"No money on the estate, items are vanishing, and she acts like she has money to burn," she exasperatedly cries out.
"What did you tell her you were doing this afternoon?"
"Picking wildflowers...all right, I'm coming out now. Don't you dare laugh."
Richárd turns in the direction of the door, and as he sees her enter, holds her breath. A vision. He knew she would be. "You look wonderful!"
"The shoes don't fit," she notes, as she pulls up her skirts softly, revealing her feet, still in her old ragged and worn leather slippers.
"No one will be looking at your shoes."
"Yards of fabric, and I still feel naked."
"We need to get you in the right mood," he takes her chin. "Remember, you're a lady now. You take nothing from no one. Don't let anyone look down on you."
Danielle meets his eyes, spirit flashing. "Of course not."
"Come, let's do your hair."
The courts are fascinatingly beautiful. An experience so graceful, elegant, and surreal. She walks into the grounds, looking for the transport of the debtors being sent to America.
There it is.
Adrenaline saturates her being as she whispers assurances of confidence to herself. She is a courtier. Her voice will be heard.
"Stop!" she cries out, as she steps in front of the horses.
The driver looks at her. "What do you want?"
"I wish to address the business of this gentleman. He is my servant, and I have come to pay the debt against him."
"He's already sold to Cartier."
Danielle feels blood rushing to her eyes as they sting in almost fury. She'd have to forceful. She is leaving with Maurice. "I can pay you 20 gold francs."
"You can have me for 20, now get out of my way," he commands.
"No! Do you think it is right to chain up people like chattel? I'm taking this to the King!"
"The King's the one who's sold him! Now get out of my way!"
"You dare raise your voice to a lady?" A familiar baritone interceded.
Almost.
She turns to meet the eyes of the Prince of France, and curtseys to him, quickly turning away, hoping that he does not recognize her.
But she does not do so feebly. No, a courtier has no one look down on her. No one.
He is handsomer than she remembers. Perhaps it is in the air around him as well. Saturated with a feeling of gold, she is almost certain that the fragrance that now fills her lungs is that of richness.
By him are two women: a stunning golden-haired rose, and a woman of dark complexion but with a pale soul. Her eyes flit from the two back to the prince.
"Y-Y-Your highness..." the formerly belligerent driver now stutters. "I was f-following orders..." he begins, and then glares at the offending young woman. "My job, your highness," he continues with more courage and an air of arrogance, "is to bring these thieves to the coast, where they are to be sent to America."
"A servant," Danielle steps forward automatically, "is not a thief, and those who are cannot help themselves."
There is something in her eyes. He's seen the magic in them before. The infused energy in those irises is familiar. He has met her before, hasn't he? When he and his companions had stumbled upon the scene, he'd first watched with curiosity, but now, with her eyes puncturing his, he realizes that it wasn't curiosity; it was a spell. She attracted his gaze; she commanded it.
Before he can muster a response to her assertion, however, he is surprised by another clear voice.
"Oh really? By all means, Please enlighten us."
Danielle looks at the tall blonde, in her blue and gold sparkles. Her sapphire eyes laugh and tease in a way that conveys to Danielle that this beautiful young woman would never understand reason; she has been too sheltered all her life. But realizing that her argument would appeal to the prince, she continues, eyes focused on the prince's.
She is holding him under some kind of dangerous trance. He tries to turn away...
"If you suffer your people to be ill-educated and their manners corrupted from infancy, and then punish them for those crimes to which their first education disposed them, what else is to be concluded, sire, but that you first make thieves and then punish them?"
Silence.
The courtiers are all watching. There is a crowd gathering in the dusty road outside of the castle, and now the murmuring coagulates slowly. Who is this woman? Where did she find these ideas?
"There you have it! Release him."
The driver looked at the young woman who spoke. "But...your highness..." he looks from her to the prince.
William looks at his sister who now stares back at him in all seriousness. He turns back to the guard. "You heard the princess. Release him."
The driver looks back to Danielle, and her heart catches in her throat, afraid that the guard would deliberately disobey the Prince's orders. And the Princess. Princess Gabriella? she berates herself. She thought the princess a common courtier?
"Well?" Gabriella demands, voice smoothed over with ice.
The driver gets down from his seat, and sorts through his keys for the right one.
Her eyes sparkle like his mother's amethysts. With joy and wonder. William watches her go to her servant, and embrace him.
Gabrielle watches the young courtier, intrigued. The shoes don't match the dress, just as the ideas don't fit the clothes and the manners don't fit the station.
"I thought I was looking at your mother..." Maurice whispers into Danielle's ear as he almost kisses her cheek, but recalls himself, and their location.
"Meet me at the bridge," she whispers back. "Prepare the carriage at once," she says louder, and turns to the royal siblings. "Thank you, your highnesses."
"Do you know her?" William asks of his sister softly, as the mysterious young woman turns to leave.
"No, but I'm going to," she turns to their guest. "Perdon, Ana, espéreme por favor."
Danielle starts to walk away, but shifts uncomfortably as she realizes that the crowd assembled around the earlier argument is now still watching her, and whispering.
It is because, she realizes as the hand touches her arm, the Princess Gabriella D'Arcy is following her. "Who are you?"
Following his sister in the same curiosity, Prince William steps in front of the beautiful mysterious woman. "I could have sworn I've met all the courtiers in the province. I'm almost sure I've seen you before. But I do not recall a name...we have met?"
So he does not remember her. Inwardly, she sighs in relief, and perhaps is a little insulted. "Um...no!" Danielle tries to keep color from rising to her cheeks. "I am visiting a cousin."
"Your cousin?" Gabrielle presses. Her brother is not a help, though he is rather amusing, looking at this woman in a way that she can almost swear is amazement. "Who?"
"My cousin," Danielle quips to the young blonde, the one she concluded the easier of the two to talk to. Even though her severe underestimation of the princess makes her wary even conversing with her now.
"Yes, you said that," Gabrielle's eyes almost narrow in suspicion. But no. That would scare the young woman, who already is almost trembling. "Which one?"
"T-The only cousin I have, your highness," she replies, and walks a bit faster. There are the gates! She wants to run away. Far away.
"Then what is your cousin's name?" William jumps back into conversation, deciding that teasing would be the best way to set her at ease. "So that I may call upon her to learn your name."
"William?"
The two crowned heads turn to the sound of their mother's voice.
"Where is Ana?"
"Princess Ana..." he says, as realization dawns. He turns to the woman who now watches the scene quietly.
Gabriella seizes on the opportunity. "Yes, you have to take care of her. Sorry, William..." She loops her arm in the woman who now attempts to escape.
William glares at his sister, and goes back to the princess. "Lo siento, Princesa."
Gabrielle now continues her examination. "So where were we? Ah yes, my brother wanted to know your name. And I do as well, for anyone who can quote Thomas More is well worth the effort to meet."
"The Princess has read Utopia?"
"I found it sentimental and dull. I confess, the plight of the common peasant bores me."
"Then I may guess that you do not converse with many peasants?"
"No, naturally," Gabriella almost laughs, but checks it as she realizes that the young woman is serious.
"There is nothing natural about it. A country's character is defined by its commoners. That position demands respect." Their eyes meet. Gabby now sees that the unsettling eyes are just the surface. There is a lot more.
"You think I'm very selfish and arrogant, don't you?" she asks of the woman, gently, quietly, letting go of her arm.
"Well, your highness, you gave one man back his life, but did you even look at the others?"
Gabriella stares at her, and turns back to the cart of men, faces in misery, ignorant of the cause of their punishment.
When she turns back to speak to the woman, she finds her conversation partner is gone.
Content is a meadow filled with sunshine and wildflowers. Danielle watches Madeline embrace her husband.
The afternoon breeze caresses her cheeks as she notices that the sky is now hinting of sunset. And a beautiful ending to the day it is.
The sky is the color of his eyes. Him.
The Prince.
And the Princess.
Princess Gabriella. She had offended her. She is sure of it.
But what a surprise. That the siblings came to her rescue, to help save Maurice...
She is gratified to whatever was in the air at that moment that made them generous.
The moonrise would be in a few hours, and she wants to have all her chores done for it tonight. It is to be a full moon, and she wants to watch in peace and solitude.
"Did she leave a name?"
"And aren't you very curious, brother?" Gabby asks of her brother.
"She's a very...interesting character."
"Yes, she is."
"Why did you help her, Gabby? Concerns of prisoners and people...they do not interest you normally."
"I like her."
"You do? Those are the strongest words I've heard from you in a while. You are apathetic to everything else in this kingdom."
"She's read Utopia. Have you?" she turns to her brother, who guiltily shakes his head. "Have you read anything recent, modern? I confess, I've read, but have not truly appreciated. I never understood."
"So she's educated. Because she's obviously not from around here, I'm sure that wherever she is from, forward thinkers cram the roads. And I'm sure that her ladies' school educated her on those matters, among other things. Still, don't you think there is something very odd about her? No woman in this area truly reads..."
"No man, either..." Gabby goes to her bookshelf, and takes a book from the shelf, opening it to a random page, and caresses the text reverently with her fingers. She's been wanting to reread this book from the moment the woman challenged her belief that it was dull. But she now has a better idea. "William, I want you to read this."
"Utopia?"
"This is the book she quoted this afternoon. She thought it had insight. Perhaps reading it would help you understand her. And if not, at least you'll know that the heart of this country rests in the people she is trying to protect. And that position," she quotes her teacher, "demands respect. It does not matter that she is a woman, nor does it matter that she reads. It is a sign that times are changing, and that you ought to catch up."
William's chin tilts as he examines his sister. "There is something different about you."
"Good. It's about time."
"You don't want to? What do you mean you don't want to, William?" his father the king demands of him.
The morning sun shines down on the table at each his father sits. It strikes the floors, illuminating them with a glow. He relishes in the arms of heat reaching through the windows, holding him up against his father.
"I don't know. I just need some time to think. I do not believe this is a good time for me to engage myself in activities that have as permanent an effect as a wedding."
"You agreed to marry Princess Ana..."
"Yes, I know, and now I am saying that I think that I did not give the decision as much thought as it requires. I need some time to think."
"I think it's a good idea, Father."
The King turns to the intruder on the argument. "Gabriella. You didn't put him up to this, did you?"
"No, and I'm so proud he came to this conclusion himself. It's time we started thinking about the consequences of our actions. We need to think ahead, not agree to what's happened in the past."
"And all of a sudden you want to be involved in making decisions?" the king asks of his daughter.
Gabriella holds her chin up, posture rigid in her gown. A gown, William notes, that Gabriella had always complained of. She now looks born in it. "Yes, father, I do. I'm part of this family as well, and though my brother is the crown prince, I still have some very good ideas."
"William?" The king turns to his son, looking for some reason. "Please tell her we don't have time to deal with temper tantrums."
"No, I stand firm, and I am speaking in all seriousness when I say that I have ideas, and would like them heard."
"And I will stand by her and listen to them," William quips before he realizes what he is doing. "And we together declare two things: I will not marry the Princess of Spain now, and maybe not ever. Gabriella will voice her ideas. We will decide together if we choose to use them or not. In fact, I would like Gabriella to have as much power in a decision as I do."
"William, have you gone mad?"
"No, I have not. She has good ideas, father. She is well-educated. Let us use her education."
Gabriella nods.
The King of France looks at his two children, hands in each others, looking at him with the same eyes, with the same expression. It is the same turbulent blue he had seen in the mirror when he first began as king. Energy, enthusiasm. Determination.
"All right. For this next month, we will deliberate together as a family. Each of us has equal say, and Gabby will voice her ideas. At the end of this month, I will decide if Gabby's ability to be a ruler is sufficient enough. At the end of this month, we will also announce your engagement, William, with a ball. You are not engaged now, but if you do not announce your choice of wife that evening, by the stroke of midnight, I will announce it for you."