1907

 I was already a result of an unnatural, frowned-upon affair--being the second child of my mother and a dark-skinned father I never knew of, aside from being born with a different, darker shade than the people here. But it got worse, right on the night I was to be engaged.

It all started with a normal day-- cool and crisp outside, strong breeze making way for the season of winter. I was hunching over a manuscript--a collection of poetries--warm light coming from the flicker of an oil lamp by my study desk. I hummed a tune, reciting the poems in my head.

Writing was a way to erase my desire for a shut-eye. I might have been lucky--I might not have dreamt. But I didn't dare take the risk. I'd rather not sleep at all.

Oil lamp sounded like an old treasure, a bit backtracked for an upper class--with the steam technology taking place, but I didn't mind. The bulb--quite fascinating, really--had been hanging in public lately, but my mother preferred me to use oil lamps until it was proven stable by the society--and her primly friends.

It was invented not too long ago, by this man named Thomas Edison from America, a land quite a distance from England, but a bit nearer to Grimmonbourne, this small island I lived in--with a big population, but not as much to compete with the more famous parts of the English Empire.

I was deeply mesmerized in my study, my heart at ease in the rhythm of my tapping feet. The empty parchment was nearly filled with drops of ebony ink from the scratches of my quilt. I wished to be an author, or a poet, since I was small, after the day I learned about the Greek civilization and the Renaissance's period. Artisans were huge contributors to the society, it was even considered a must for a whole growth in Athens at one time.

My mother frowned upon the idea--stretching down her calm but already disapproving face even more. She wanted me to throw (and attend) high-class parties, develop an interest in golf, or pursue to impress the royal ladies of Grimmonbourne. There wasn't anything particularly wrong with my passion, but it wasn't the ideal career she liked.

Suddenly, a knuckle rapped at my door, and I said, "It's not locked."

"Emerett, there you are!"

I looked up to see the servant--my servant, Arthur, came in. He was a tall, bulky man--not far from my age, probably just a year or two, with a fly rink. He wore a fine ebony waistcoat over a collared white shirt--similar to mine, coming in with a panicky manner. "Goodness, what have you been doing in here?"

"Writing," I jerked my chin to my parchment. "Can't you see it?"

"Hardly saw anything, really dark in here," he tapped his palm against the wooden desk, right beside my elbow. "You'll hurt your eyes."

"I have my lamp." I frowned.

"But what for?"

I opened my mouth but snapped it shut when I caught him walking towards the window. Mother didn't like the windows opened at dark. "Mother-"

"Would want you out." His hands wrapped around the rope lever, and the curtains parted. A bright blast of light knocked me off my feet, blinking a few times to adjust the purple hue hovering in my sight.

Not a moment later, I heard the soft chirping of canaries and busy noises of the streets. Men greeting each other for their morning and the creaking of wheels from steam carriages.

When my fingers reached the table, I pulled myself on my feet. My calf had a dull ache, a sensation that would disappear after a few minutes, like the time I bumped into a lamp (please do not ask). The view outside was the distant sky, clouds of cotton, the color of milk. Trails of grey smoke fluttered by someone's chimney, reaching up like threads to dark fabric, the velvet curtains seizing it as a framed picture.

Heavy leathered books in shelves finally gave a peek when the direct morning light simmered over them.
I could see the bleach walls, the unused chandelier from the green-painted ceiling.

"It's-" I gaped, rubbing my hands over my face like brushing off dirty stains smeared on clothes. "Morning? Already?"

"Yes, Emerett," Arthur clasped his hands behind his back and moved directly towards me. His eyes looked tired, an eyebrow raised almost to his non-existent hair. "It's an important day."

"It is?"

"Yes," he sighed. He wouldn't do that to my mother, but it was odd for us to talk as distant adults, so everything he slipped was a cure for my strong longing of a relaxed, easy life. With no mother to make you do anything she wanted. Naturally, Arthur took advantage of it, which was fine to me."Lady Llewellyn invited you for tea at the palace."

"She did?" I stared dumbly. "Did I agree?"

"No, you were in your study," he regarded me with a hooded gaze. "But your mother promised you would be there. Even sent a letter for a carriage request."

"Oh," I flicked off the light from the oil lamp, then twisted my ink close, a muscle twitching in my hand. I pushed everything neatly aside, while Arthur used a napkin to dab the blotted dark at the eye of my feather. My voice was heavy, and my fingers rummaged through my hair, when I said, "She's not supposed to do that."

"Do what?"

"Do all those things," I shrugged. "I understand that I have to do my best to be accepted by society, be as normal, as high-profile as possible. But I don't need her setting up my feelings for someone."

His face softened. "Lady Llewellyn is a kind, comely young lady," he reasoned. "And she is quite charming."

"I don't deny that, but I wouldn't say she charmed me quite yet."

He wrapped his fingers around my arm, a strong contrast in sight. White gloves on my disapproved-of dark skin. "From what I've seen, she genuinely had an interest in you. And it would certainly make your mother happy."

"I suppose so," I croaked, my wrist suddenly sore.

"Then we better get you ready," he urged, nodding to the door. "Before Lady Wells found out. She isn't fond of your hobby either."

I let him pull me out, my ankles cramped up from sitting on a stool overnight. We looked at each other when my mother's favorite child--a brown and hazy beige ragdoll--crawled past under my feet. It purred, and no matter how much I truly loved her, I didn't need her exposing us.

"Rosie, hush."

"Meow."

"Rosie, no."

Arthur nudged her away with his leg. "Ignore the cat. Hurry."

"Hurry to what?"
Unfortunately, we were exposed. My mother fixed us with a scowl of a falcon's, already in her morning velvet gown, golden drapes touching the marble floor.

Her hair was up in frozen chocolate curls, and she made a sound of disgust when she saw me--in my evening collared shirt, sleeves folded, and wearing only baggy pants to my knees. Arthur released me, straightening his collar. "Emerett Wells, what have you been doing?"

Thanks a lot, Rosie.

"I was writing, mother."

She turned her nose up, eyeing me with a flinch. My shoulders stiffened when I realized she didn't intend to raise her voice like she would always do. "That was your evening wear yesterday."

"I've...been busy all night."

"That won't do, you are to meet Lady Llewellyn for tea," then she turned to Arthur, who cleared his throat. She was scowling but keeping down her temper. I could tell because I'd seen the face once when she tried to tolerate me in front of the public. "Have you informed him?"

"I have, Lady Wells."

"Hmm," she hummed, before turning to Rosie, who purred by the hems of her skirt. "Clean him, hurry. The carriage arrives at eight precise."

All I managed to do before Arthur pulled me away was glare at Rosie and promise to not allow her anywhere near my study for the week. I swore I'd seen the whole scenery before--and I dared not to look around any longer.

 In my sleep-- from a week ago, shadows lingered in the corners, and Rosie hissed at a hand of one. I closed my eyes when I heard her hiss, and Arthur muttering, "Crazy cat. What's she glaring at?"

That's one heck of a normal introduction if you ask me. What do you think about Emerett? And Rosie (so far, Rosie is the only character that receives 100% positive feedback about in Critique Club. Everyone loves her.)? Feel free to give me feedback, and don't forget to vote if you liked it! Thanks for reading!