The carriage was alright, though it stank like horse dung. I was grateful enough that the coachman did not look at me scorny--but I swore the horse did, that animal--a look I got quite often around here.

With my mother's words ringing in my head--be proper, mind your manners, and charm her till she fell for you--I closed the door, waved goodbye to mother and Rosie by the window and took my hat off. I picked on my gloves, then laid them on the soft layer of the crown.

As the wheels rickety-racked over our cobbled streets, I took the time to look outside.

The houses reached high, in every striking color imaginable to show off (mine was white because unlike them, mother had a good taste in art) rich of tinted glasses and heavy curtains.

Women in hats carried their parasols though the Sun hadn't shown itself, huddling in groups under tall rooftops. Men in fine clothing scraped their boots as they make way with canes. I saw this everyday, living in this well-off neighborhood.

What I was anticipating for was the path to the palace, beyond all this. The area of the commoners--the middle and lower classes.

It was even busier, and livelier--beyond Grapwall, with the flying birds and stray cats roaming along the road. The carriage joined along a crowd of steam automobiles--an officer giving commands with his bronze whistle, their drivers dressed as me, but with more casualty.

I could spot women in short gowns a little here and there--without the fancy clothing and from what I've heard, they wanted to work on their own.

I didn't exactly have an opinion on the matter, though my mother was happy as she was, staying at home--raising me without a husband or any work--and still kept her status and wealth. Society didn't like the raw opinion, so if asked, I'd oppose it.

On the streets were children running in white uniforms, an old man tipping his bowler hat at me. I returned his smile, it came so easily--the people here wouldn't look at me funny like the upper class did. Or, if they did, they tried their best to hide it.

It wasn't my first time out of Grapwall. Sometimes I'd just look from my window. Other times I'd travel on foot to a bookshop or to meet friends--fellow readers, writers, and poets.

Rusty green apartments cobbled close with each other, the sight of the filthy part of the streets lumped in between. The darker, much-hidden part of Scranham, with bulging-eyed beggars, stretches of shadows and stray dogs prowling free.

I dreamt of it quite often.
My first dream that cursed me was of that very corner of Scranham--a cat trampled by wheels of a cart. I remembered keeping an eye on as many cats I could all day, a 9 year old boy following felines and glaring at carts.

I remembered the shadows--the horror that tightened my chest and seized my breathing. I had toppled in fear, knocking a cart with full force, and I had only watched with a strangled cry from my throat--

--as it trampled over a small, sleeping stray kitten.

The morning smell of coal and wet dog brought me back to the present. I was sweating, a bile in my throat. I assured myself that time had passed, and even if the curse did not stop there, I had grown.
I had lived.

Women in bonnets chatted above, all the while hanging clothes on washlines while some children rushed about in school uniforms.

What I was always itching to see was a crowd. Just at the corner of Scranham Street--way far from their darker side, usually abuzz with claps of awe.
It never failed in making me crave a quilt in my hands, to scribble down anything I could about it. Instead, I'd take notes in my head, eager to write it all down later.

And it was a brilliant distraction to get my mind off that kitten I had killed at the moment.

When the carriage turned, I was at the edge of my seat. And as expected, there was a crowd. Usually, it happened with performers from Italy--with their accordions, monkeys, and new introductions of food (I heard ice cream came from Italy, so I had no doubt in them).

But never was there a crowd so still--like a silent before a storm, unless the performer was the very one I'd been mentioning.

Suddenly, I was thrown back, my gloves almost falling out. When I stuck my head out, I saw black smoke floating in the air from a rusty pipe.

"Bugger!" the coachman grunted, loud enough for me to hear. "If ya wanna take steam, let it be functioning, you oaf!"

The new steam technology was indeed a wonderful discovery--with the beautiful touch of color, though I'd prefer to enjoy the mystery of the crowd.

At the center of it all was a girl in a coat--her hands flexing in swift motions--sending cards, folded into bird shapes, flying through the air on their own. They swept over the carriage in grace, and I reached an arm out to catch one.

I felt like a child catching paper airplanes in a meadow--the nostalgia of some children refusing to play with me because of my skin hitting quite hard. I did it anyway, curiosity got the best of me.

It was a card of red and white, embossed in gold, the edges hard and true. I brought it in and it fluttered in my palms like a real bird would.

Whatever she did, it was simply magical.

My heart felt light, a chuckle out of my mouth. At the corner of my eyes, I saw the girl waving at me--well, maybe it wasn't me, but I was so excited I didn't realize it--and I nodded in return. The bird took place of my gloves as I put them on when the carriage finally moved.

Minutes--or an hour, I didn't wear a watch, and it didn't struck to me at the time to simply look at Grimmonbourne's clockwork tower--later, the scenery changed, passing through a huge golden gate, guards in tunics nodding at me--albeit out of practice, their eyes drooping low.

My bird flattened perfectly back to a card. Not a single crease or marks of a fold. A playing card of poker. A red heart at the center, originally just a stamp.
An Ace of Hearts.

I slid it in my hat, pinching the brim with my gloved white hands. I'd do anything to talk more about the bird or the meaning of the card, better than attending tea with someone I knew I had to act charming with all the time. Fake smiles, fake interests, full of flattery. For once I'd wish I do it, follow my heart.

But I knew I wouldn't because my heart only truly belonged to Rosie and my mother--and if she wanted me to be charming, I'd do it. I'd do anything to be looked up at. So long as people stop gossiping about the kind woman raising her dark-skinned child and a cat.

The looming figure of the palace stretched above--golden and draped with dark blue banners--and I sighed to myself. It was as if the card knew what was to happen next.

Well, I've elaborated a little on where our story would take place. Did you find anything else about Emerett? What do you think about Grimmonbourne and the society?

Don't be afraid to give me feedback (I've faced very harsh critics on CC before, don't worry) and a vote would be greatly appreciated :). Thanks for reading!