People who learn to

control the inner

experience will always be able to
d

etermine the quality
of life they have
regardless of any
outer circumstances.

-Maryam Hasnaa

. . .

"Lyssa!" I giggled into the phone as she prattled on about all the boring Lords she attended to last minute while I was off dancing with Lord Denville. "I have something to tell you!"

Cutting off mid sentence about stuffy Lord Rancschoff, she asked, "What?"

"I met a new Lord tonight." Biting my lip, I flopped onto my back with a smile.

I suspected, rather than heard her flop onto her back as well, almost mockingly saying, "Pray tell."

Recounting the enchanting story in excruciating, maybe a little over exaggerated detail, I waited a few seconds after finishing my wonderful story for her squeal of excitement, but it never came.

Holding the phone closer to my ear, and sitting up, I asked, "Lyssa? Did the phone cut out?"

All I heard was breathing on the other end, no indication of anything.

Maybe we were having a connection problem. "Lyssa?"

Suddenly, static roared into the receiver and I thrust the phone away from my ear.

Massaging my earlobe, I muttered, "Good grief," saying loud enough for the phone to catch, "I'll see you tomorrow evening!" and ending the call.

With a sigh, I heaved myself up and out of bed. Pressing the button discreetly camouflaged in the white brick of my walls, a maid rushed in to help me unzip my dress and hung it in my closet. She wasn't my personal maid- as it was too late in the night to call her out of bed.

The small, brown haired girl stood a good distance away from me as I stripped, then slipped a light pink nightgown over my head. With a small, delicate nose and a soft, heart shaped face coupled with her round almond eyes, she could have been a mouse shoved in a maid's outfit.

"You're dress is hung up in your closet, Miss."

I raised an eyebrow, slightly annoyed. "I certainly hope it was hung in the closet, seeing as a dress isn't shoved up a chimney. And you address me as, 'my Lady,' not 'Miss.'"

"Apologies, Mi- my Lady." The girl looked down at her shoes, a blush staining her cheeks.

With a sigh, I waved my hand in dismissal. She skittered off.

Huh, like a mouse. Maybe next time I'll give her cheese if it keeps her from talking.

Chandelier lights flicked off, I climbed into bed, dreaming of the dance I had with Lord Denville. Not even my maid's stupidity could truly spoil the evening's event.

Woken up at ten, my maid- Fiona- pulled the warm, heavy covers back and drew a lemon scented bath for me, scrubbing at my body and rinsing out my hair. By the time the glorious tub was draining and I was being dried off, it was nearly eleven.

"How was your night? Meet any new handsome Lords?" Fiona sat me down on the plush chair in front of my vanity, brushing my long dark hair away from my face.

Enjoying the tenderness which Fiona untangled the knots in my hair, I respond halfheartedly, "Yes, there was one."

"His name?" Fiona smiled at me through the mirror and plugged in the blow dryer.

"Lord Elland Denville," I smiled dreamily, "He's in the King's circle."

Her response was drowned out by the noise of the dryer, fingers running through my hair. Fiona moved my head so I was looking down, drying the bottom of my hair before pulling my head upright again and turning the dryer off.

Sighing and looking at my fluffy, tangled hair, she tsked, "Whatever will I do with this hair of yours?"

"Style it, I hope," I snorted.

Fiona tapped the crown of my head in scolding and I laughed. Fiona was more of a mom to me than my actual mother. Though she dressed, styled, and pampered me, she taught me how to do things myself as well. If there was a morning where I woke up and felt like being independent that day, I knew how to draw my own baths, style my own hair, and apply makeup myself. I found it oddly reassuring that I didn't need Fiona to do everything for me. Despite the fact that mother constantly reprimanded me that there were servants to do our menial tasks, I poured my own tea and rather enjoyed dressing myself.

"Half up, or pulled back?" Fiona studied my hair, asking the question like the mess was going to spontaneously grow a brain and decide it felt like attacking us.

I smiled mischievously and replied, "All down."

Her eyebrows rose. "Going for the scandalous look today, Alene?"

Fiona was the only servant I allowed to call my by my first name, besides cook. I loved cook. He let me steal extra slices of cake in the middle of the night if I got peckish.

"Of course, Fiona. Who would I be if I didn't give my mother a daily heart attack?"

"Not yourself, that's for sure," she chortled.

Plugging in the curling iron, Fiona's face was angled down to the left and I caught a faint glimpse of something dark in the crevice between her ear and jaw. My eyebrows drew in.

"Fiona, what is that on your neck?" Tapping the spot where I saw it on my own neck, Fiona waved her hands.

"Nothing, dear. Must be a bit of coal dust from tending to the fires."

My lips turned down and while I didn't fully believe her, I had no reason to question her explanation. A memory tugged at my mind and I struggled to remember where I had been witness to a similar situation.

Oh! A few months ago, Lyssa, Whitney, and I were having tea in the gardens and Whitney asked Lyssa if her maid had accidentally gotten mascara on her neck. Lyssa had blushed heavily and sputtered a response. It was on the left side of her jaw, like Fiona's, and since I was sitting on Lyssa's right at the time, I hadn't seen it.

What was I thinking? It probably was mascara and Fiona had a little coal dust on her. It was no big deal.

"Wait, Fiona..." I paused for dramatic effect and Fiona glanced up from my hair curiously, "What do you think about Lord Denville?"

I could have sworn she sighed in relief, but I wrote it off as me being odd and waited for her response. She wrapped a strand of hair around the large curler and carefully said, "Your story sounds nice."

The story sounds nice? What did that mean? What did she think about Lord Denville? That was what I asked her.

"But what are your thoughts on Lord Denville?" I pressed, watching through the armoire mirror as she set the curled strand away from the straight sections.

"I think... I think that he sounds very charming."

Her response didn't make me feel as happy as I thought it would. For some reason, I thought that she would be more excited about it. She had been wooing and cooing over Lords all my life. What was different about Lord Denville? Did she know him?

I was hesitant to ask, biting my lip in thought.

"Oh, Alene, stop biting your lip and just ask me."

I felt a little guilty, but asked, "Do you know Lord Denville?"

Fiona wrapped another piece of hair around the wand, then looked at me through the mirror. "I do not know Lord Denville, though from what you told me he sounds compatible. I just know that those in the King's circle worked to get their positions and not in a sanely moral way."

"What?" I waited until she set the newly curled strand on my shoulder and turned around in my plush chair, looking her in the eyes. "What do you mean?"

She lowered her eyes to the floor. Fiona, the woman that had taught me to look in the eyes of lowly men, despite the fact that they were below my ranking status. Fiona, the woman that had taught me to stand up to men who attempted to taint my virtue... she looked down.

"I would not like to discuss this anymore, Alene. It is a gruesome, nasty topic."

Hearing the soft plea in her words, I bit my lip and let it drop with, "Okay, then how are your sons?"

Her two sons, Wyatt and Weston were twins, only ten.

"Oh, they are doing just fine. They started learning how to dance properly in school and are having a hoot with the girls."

I laughed, knowing how charming and charismatic the twins were. They were like my little brothers.

"I bet they are, those little devils," I remarked.

She snorted. "I had to remind them to keep their hands above the waistline. No noodle arms. They weren't boiled in water."

We both laughed and talked about what was planned for my day. Apparently, my father wanted to see me in his study at noon and then I had my usual lesson with Lady Cultier from one-thirty to four.

Once my hair was curled and Fiona was spraying gold flecks in it to set the curls, I was expected to be in my father's study in twenty minutes. Fiona called for another maid to fetch my day dress as she applied my makeup in quick, efficient motions. Rubbing a tinted moisturizer into my skin, pink dabbed onto my cheeks and a swift line across the top of my eyelid, Fiona dusted my eyelids a light gold and brushed my eyelashes with black. Instructing me to relax my lips, she lined my lips with a brilliant red, glossing it over before releasing me to get dressed.

I loved watching Fiona do her work. She made it look easy. While I could decently use eyeliner within twenty minutes, Fiona did it in five. If there was anyone I wanted to be when I grew up, it was her.

Walking into my closet, dresses of all colors and fabrics surrounded me on both sides. A large, circular seating furniture that looked more like a pincushion that anything I would sit on in the center of the enormous room. The mousy maid sat on it, the dress I was supposed to wear on her lap.

Seeing me enter, she abruptly stood, causing the dress to almost fall to the floor, but she caught it just in time.

Rushing to me, she unzipped the dress and I held out my arms, biting my tongue at her impertinence.

Tugging the dress over my shoulders, mousy moved behind me, zipping up the back and buttoning the fabric that covered the zipper. Why society felt that the zippers needed to be covered by more fabric and buttons that didn't look any less awkward boggled me, but I wasn't supposed to question anything. I was to keep my mouth closed unless I was saying something regarding how grateful I was to be born a First.

"There you go, my Lady."

I turned to look at myself in the mirror set on the opposite wall, admiring the way the charcoal dress hugged my bust and flared out from my hips. The entire dress was made of mulberry silk- my favorite fabric of choice. Not only did the colors make my lips pop, but my turquoise eyes seemed to be more vibrant.

"Thank you," I muttered, noting how my red lips stood out with my black hair and dark, off the shoulder dress. "You may go."

Mousy looked as if she might question me, but curtseyed and scurried off again.

Smiling at my reflection, I knew what shoes would go best with my look today- a look that would have steam coming out of my mother's ears.

Bending down below my dresses, I snatched a pair of black heels that had fabric wrap around my lower calves, tying a bow at the back.

Noting my almost scandalous outfit, I nodded in approval and hoped that the reason my father wanted me in his study in less than ten minutes was to discuss Lord Denville's proposal of marriage.

Double checking my appearance, I sauntered out of the rooms and moved down the halls with hopeful purpose.

"Come in, darling." Father's voice rumbled through the oak door and I set a small, tempered smile on my face as I slipped inside.

Father was standing behind his desk, a glass of water in his hand as he stared out his window to the city below. His back was to me.

"What is the pleasure for this meeting, dad?" I kept myself standing, waiting for the moment when he turned around and saw the outfit I was wearing.

He turned around... and tilted his graying head back with a laugh.

"You're mother will have a heart attack, Alene." He didn't disapprove of my choice, though.

Smiling devilishly, I said, "I know."

He shook his head with an amused smile. "Even to this day, I enjoy watching your mother tangle her hair with fury."

"'Tangle her hair with fury'," I asked cheekily. "Who says things like that except you?"

"No one. It's what makes me so unique."

I snorted, "Uh, huh. And the fact that every woman who sees you practically throws themselves at you, in spite of your wife and child."

"Looks only get you so far, Alene. You know that." He gave me a pointed look.

"Yes, father," I sighed, rolling my eyes. "I know."

"Well then, let's get down to business, shall we?"

I nodded, eager to know if Lord Denville had truly requested my hand in marriage, but kept my eagerness from my father's knowledge.

Father came around his long wooden desk and motioned me to sit, sitting in the chair usually reserved for one of his clients, across from me.

Clearing his throat, father held my hand and looked me in the eyes. "Alene, it's that time again where suitors are looking for brides and you have yet to agree to a proposal."

I waited for him to continue, patience straining. Father's light gray eyes looked deeply into mine and he took a breath, holding onto my hand a little tighter- preparing to analyze my reaction, I knew.

"Lord Steven Deryll has requested your hand in marriage, what is your answer?"