Uniqueness:

I never met them, you know. I had heard stories about them—how they were tall, and different. While everyone was attending the loveliest garden parties and sipping imported tea from the furthest corners of the world, my parents were out studying birds and people watching. They were the sort of people that intimidated the higher class with their uniqueness. They were so different, it was scary.

I would have loved to meet them. To be able to tell them that I didn’t think they were so frightening—that I could go with them to the Amazon and draw pictures of strange creatures that no one had ever seen. Bugs and dirt didn’t bother me—I reveled in that sense of carelessness. To me, different was good. If everyone was the same, nothing would matter, and we would die soul-less, colorless people, none of us as individuals, but a common group of stagnant waste.

I had always been told my parents were a disgrace to society because they spoke their minds—which in that day of England was always a crime. No one was supposed to say what they really felt—just what they were expected to feel. I hated it there. England was a place full of walls. Walls that divided people. Division between class, gender, race, sexuality. People put up fortresses and only invited in those that were exactly like them. White faces were everywhere—the rich grouped with the rich. Of course, the wealthy remained wealthy while the poor suffered. They only way out of poverty was to marry into money—a hard thing to do for us poor females, considering the pompous stuffed-shirts wanted nothing to do with the female lower class unless it involved getting up her skirts. It was the kind of thing that made you sick.

I longed to get away. But how does a poor, orphaned, connection-less female get away from her position? I was a dependant in Lithstone Manor, the estate of my deceased uncle’s wife. She treated me, although I was family, as a servant. It was not frowned upon you know, to treat your charge lower than the very pebbles under your feet. In they eyes of the land, we were trash that clung to society.

There was no talk of running away, no thoughts of leaving Lithstone. I despised being there—but I had no where else to go. The people of that land were not hospitable ones. If I left, I would have no choice but to starve, and I would not degrade myself to begging, even if it was a successful trade. No, Lithstone would remain my prison until I was seventeen.

Freedom is a wonderful thing. To break away from something so horrid, and come into a beautiful place, where the sun shines and love is everywhere. I will never forget the coldness of my aunt Margaret’s estate. I will never forget the pain I felt as her charge. I will never forget the friendlessness. I will never forget the degradation. But likewise, I will never forget the day I broke free. And that is where this story really begins…

Chapter One

The room was lit with only one candle. The light flickered in the soft breeze that roamed the castle at night, leaving an emptiness in its trail. The candle was set on a small table of oak, between two large velvet armchairs. One chair sat patiently empty, while the other held a small, thin woman, with a head of golden curls. She stared at the tiny candle flame, her gray eyes reflecting the flame as it danced. In her frail hands she held a book. The letters on the front cover were understandable only to her, they were written in an ancient, forgotten language that no one bothered to learn anymore.

The pages of the book were frayed, and the cover was stained with age. The leather had worn away in some places, leaving a forgotten look about it, as if it had sat on a shelf in loneliness for years and years. She caressed the book absentmindedly with her fingers, as if it was some precious treasure she needed to protect and love. She sat rigidly in her chair, never taking her eyes from the flame, waiting for someone to come into the room.

The door opened, and the Empress walked in. She took her place beside the girl. The Empress came dressed in her night robes, her long, black hair twisted into a shining braid that ran down the whole of her body. Her green eyes gleamed with interest when they found the book in the girl's hands. She had been Empress of Elganiel for near twenty years, and had never seen its most precious volume.

“How may I help you?” The Empress asked quietly. The breeze grew colder, and the trees tapped lightly against the windowpanes. The Empress turned to look out of the windows. All was dark and quiet.

“My name is Veromia.” The frail girl began, “I have come with urgent news.”

The Empress Annaleasa waited expectantly.

“The Council has advised me to tell you that the day of arrival is upon us.”

Annaleasa stared. For a few moments, neither of them said a word. Veromia looked at the Empress, the Empress stared at the floor, her eyes reflecting her mind in thought.

“Can you be sure?” The Empress asked.

“I am quite sure. Only I understand the language written in The Book. That is why I work for the Council. They needed me to translate, and just a few days ago, I came upon the exact date of Ivakip Ileana's entrance into our world.” She explained slowly.

“When?” The Empress asked in a whisper.

“In about five days.” Veromia replied. “She will arrive on accident, through the third door.”

The Empress knew that the third door was the third oldest portal into their world. It existed in a place the mortals of the other realm called “England”. Annaleasa had visited it herself, as a young princess in training to rule Elganiel. England was a large, modernized island, full of towns, filthy drunkards and loose women. They had things called “taverns” where men and women would go to waste away and spend their evenings shouting things at each other that were completely irrelevant and without purpose. Annaleasa had never understood why anyone would waste their time in such a world, where men beat women, and children cried constantly. It was a place of poverty, a place where no one could be what they wanted. Since that day, she had never went into the human world. Her home was Elganiel, where the faeries and elves and dwarves and even the goblins and demons somehow found a way to live peacefully. She had found a new appreciation for her kingdom after being revealed to the horrifying aspects of the human realm.

“She arrives so soon,” the Empress muttered, “Will we have time to prepare, I wonder?”

“She will not come directly here, your majesty.” Veromia put in quickly. “It is written that she will be badly injured, and be placed under the care of a man who lives in the Girn Forest.”

“The Girn Forest? What a horrible place to live...although it does contain the town of the warlocks and witches...” She mumbled. “Eercrin, the Sorcerers Village, do you know of it?”

“Of course, your grace. My cousin was a scholar there.”

“We must send word to my personal sorceress, Danae of Oruvia. She will be able to bring the Keeper here.”

“Yes, your majesty, that would be the best plan, I think. Do you have any messenger swift enough?”

“No, not a messenger, but I know a woman who can handle such a task.” The Empress said smiling. “She will be able to get the message across in a day or two.”

“That is a relief. With luck, Ileana will be here in a week, and the kingdom will be prosperous once more.” Veromia said, grinning at the Empress.

Annaleasa smiled. “Yes, with luck.”

Chapter Two

“Ileana!” A shrill voice called from the stairwell. The voice wove up the stairs, through the hall, paused for a moment to bask in the afternoon sunlight that spilled through the stained glass windows, and then finally slammed into my skull at such a high pitch, I winced in pain.

“Coming, Lady Margaret!” I called as loud as my oxygen-deprived lungs would allow. I rose painfully from my crouch over the soapy wooden floor, the soap bubbles clustering together in a shade of murky brown. I had been given the wonderful task of scrubbing all the floors and windows of Lithstone Manor that day, a task I did not find so easy to accomplish. There were one hundred and twenty nine windows in the great house, and there were two parlors, a den, three dining halls, two latrine areas, forty two bedrooms, one spacious breakfast room, three drawing rooms, and nearly six different hallways. The house was a three story. The splendor started on the first floor, and faded into the third. The last floor contained the attic and storage. That's where I lived, as a servant to my own aunt.

Of course, I was not always been her charge. I had parents once, but I remembered so little of them, I did not know if I had been happy with them, or if they had loved me. They had died when I was two. My aunt, Lady Margaret, told me that they had traveled to India and picked up some strange diseased that killed them in a manner of days. I was as lost as ever on the subject, I did not bother with it. If they had died, there was no reason to speculate over how they came to be that way. They were gone, and no manner of questions or research would bring them back.

After my parents died, my Uncle Theodore, a kind, strapping businessman, retrieved me from my parent's house in London and brought me to Lithstone. He was always been a kind man, benevolent, and wise. He gave freely to charities and orphanages, and had even purchased the fifty stained glass windowpanes for the great house. They had been a birthday present for Lady Margaret. He did dote on her, though none of us could ever understand why.

Two years after bringing me to Lithstone, my Uncle Theodore died of heart failure. He was a nice man, but he did like sweets, and I suppose he had too many of them in his lifetime. After he was gone, I was stripped of my fine silks and frills, taken out of the privileged rooms, and forced to sleep in the servant's room. The attic was cold in the winter, and dreadfully hot in the summer, so one could never be completely satisfied. I remembered the first day Lady Margaret cast me aside as a servant. She didn't even explain, she only demanded. I did what I was told, though obedience was something I hated with every part of my being.

“Ileana!” My lady called again. I sighed and rushed down the stairs quickly, and flung myself through the doors of the small parlor.

The room was quiet, and the curtains were open to the sun and breeze. And there, sitting straight as ruler on her cream sofa, was the Lady Margaret Benson, black hair pulled back into a reserved bun, dark eyebrows lifted high over her cold raven eyes. Her cheekbones were high and proper, her arms thin and her structure feminine. She was the complete essence of a lady, though sometimes I had my doubts.

She held a porcelain teacup in her clean fingers, eyeing it as if the devil himself had drank from it. She glanced over me quickly, and wiggled her nose a bit, as if smelling the filth that must have followed me from the attic. I allowed her to gaze leisurely over my attire, cringing at her obvious disgust at the rips, stains, and holes that were planted like mines all over me.

“There you are.” She said in her angry tone. “Come here.”

I stepped closer to her, with my hands clasped tightly behind my back, so as not to accidentally strangle her mid-lecture.

“Do you see this cup, here?” She asked, throwing a disgusted glance at the dish. I nodded. “Did I not order that every miniscule dish and piece of cutlery be scrubbed twice, near shining?” I nodded again. “Then how is it that this particular cup,” she began, providing a horrendous emphasis on the word “particular”, “Is defected?”

I searched the cup once, twice, and then a third time, but found no such defect. Seeing the loss in my eyes, Lady Margaret gestured to a small, insignificant water spot residing on the handle of the cup. Reader, how I longed to snatch the teacup from her hands, smash it against the floor and have done with it! But I maintained my countenance, as I had always done, and bowed my head in a mask of shame and guilt.

“I apologize, Lady Margaret.” I said quietly.

"Yes, well, go and tell the servants of my dissatisfaction. And tell Grace I would have a fresh set of tea things. These are not to my liking." She ordered solemnly, and resumed her post, staring blankly at the mantelpiece.

I was obviously dismissed. It was clear to everyone that she hated me. She had never loved me, nor would ever. I assumed it was because my uncle had favored me over her, and jealousy had consumed her, even 12 years after his death.

I hurried out of the room, rushing away from the woman I was forced to call family.

I found the other servants in the kitchen, hurriedly wiping things down with damp rags and stuffing a few birds with all manner of savory bits and pieces. I wondered who Lady Margaret was having for dinner—she never ordered geese unless she had guests visiting the house. I found Grace, a tall young woman, about nineteen, who had been an indentured servant at Lithstone for a good whole of her life. She had been sent to the horrid place by her own family, who owed debts to Margaret. They hadn’t the funds to pay them, so they sent their daughter to work them off instead. Grace had a slim build, and long, flowing, dirty-blonde curls that seemed always to be perfect, even if she did nothing with them. Her dark blue eyes knew more than their years, and she was my only friend in Margaret’s house.

“Grace,” I called. I motioned her to the side of the kitchen, out of the way of the silver platters and the vegetables that were being tossed back and forth between the kitchen crew.

“What’s happened this time?” She asked, always concerned for me, above everyone else.

“Apparently, she would have new tea things; the current ones are not to her liking.” I said quickly.

“A water spot, again?” Grace cried with emphasis. Everyone knew of Lady Margaret’s constant demands, and never-ceasing list of complaints.

“She seems even more vexed today than usual. Did something happen?” I asked.

“Master John is bringing home two gentleman from London. They are coming to stay for a total of five days. A very short stay, for fine businessman, but nevertheless, Margaret hates guests.” Grace explained solemnly.

John was Margaret's son, whom she spoiled and fawned over with every luxury possible to her small fortune. John was a fat, thick sausage of man, with no more respect for his mother or her servants than a lion for its prey. He had a mean fondness for bottom-pinching, and was always after a five minute “roll in the hay” with a scullery maid or kitchen girl. We all hated the very ground he walked on, but as women, and women servants at that, we were forced to acknowledge him with a slight curtsy and a “Greetings, Master John, sir.” Every time we came into contact with him.

It was torture.

“Is that what the geese are for?” I asked, “For dinner? They’re coming tonight?”

“Yes. That’s why she is so distressed. She always fears her accommodations are not…commodious enough.”

I giggled slightly. Lithstone was one of the most wonderful houses in the county, though cold and foreboding. Very few people who came to it for a stay, ever came there again. Lady Margaret was a lonely, aging woman, and sometimes I found myself feeling slightly sympathetic toward her, even if her cruelty extended furthest to me.

“Let’s just hope these gentlemen are something to behold, aye?” Grace said, nudging me with her elbow. The girl had the manners of a tavern maid. It was one of the many reasons I cherished her as my dearest friend.

“Oh yes, I’m sure there must be good looks among the two of them.” I winked.

We laughed, and struggled to catch our breath afterwards. I was just beginning to ask Grace if she’d heard from her family recently, when a loud call filled the whole of the ground floor.

“Ileana! Where are my tea things! I don’t have all day!” Margaret was a desperate sort of person, and very impatient at that. Grace jumped at the screeching call, and snatched a clean tray from the counter and began mounting it with Margaret’s afternoon tea time articles. I smiled at her as she grabbed the tea pot and the sugar bowl.

“Stay strong, Ileana.” She said quietly. “God know she’s hardest on you than any of us.”

I smiled long after she had gone. Henrietta, the cook, barked at me to stuff the last bird, which made my stomach turn with unease. I had never liked raw meat. I picked up the limp, skinned bird with disgust and slowly proceeded to shove the contents of the stuffing into it by handfuls. How completely revolting.

Chapter Three:

After all the chores were done came my favorite part of the evening. I was allowed to walk through the gardens and explore the rolling hills of the moor. There was not much to see, but simply being outside of the dreary and desolate house was a gift from the heavens.
I tended to the servants garden, where everyone was given a small plot of land to work as they pleased. My plot consisted of nothing but one small flower, which only bloomed at night when a full moon was up. I had spent almost all my savings on that one seed, and cared for it with my life. I had never seen it open before, but was counting down the days till the next full moon. The flower bud was white, and I could faintly see thin strips of gold on the inside, as if the petals were lined with an iridescent glow.
After some time, I left the garden and wandered around the sides of the house. The winter was wearing away, and the ivy leaves that grew up the brick walls of Lithstone began to open up and shine with new life. I viewed these thoughtfully. If only everyone could close up for the cold, eerie parts of life and then open up, refreshed and rested, to a new, warmer stage of sunshine and golden times.
It began to grow darker, and I looked up at the shady sky with ease. The darkness had never scared me. I suppose one could admire that--after all, what comes after life, but darkness? I went back towards the house, almost in a daze from the serenity of the evening.
The cool breeze of the hall made me shiver as I wandered up the stairs toward the third floor. All the servants of the house were made to sleep on the top floor. Although I was not a servant in Margaret’s house, but a dependant, she treated me like a maid. This was not looked at with any disdain. Benefactors could treat their charge as they wished--they amounted to nothing in society.
England was a dreary place. It was full of nothing but walls. Walls that divided people among who was worthy and who was not. If you born into poverty, the only way out was to marry the wealthy, a very hard thing to do, considering a majority of the wealthy were fat, pompous dimwits that wanted nothing to do with servants and seamstresses unless it involved getting up her skirts. The rich remained rich, and the poor remained poor. This was something I had learned as a child, and had to remember throughout my life. I must always tolerate degradation, I must obey the commands of the higher ranks, I must pray faithfully or else be shunned, I must always call men above my status “master”, even if they were complete imbeciles who deserved less than a face full of horse excrement, and above all, I must always, under every circumstance, remember my place.

It was more than I could bear.

I had never wanted anything extravagant in my life. I had never wanted to sleep on a bed that didn’t give me knots in my back and sides. I had never wished for the simple luxury the wealthy young ladies called “A comb”. I had never wanted to meet any of my family--if there were any left, that is. I had never wanted more friends or more money. Mine was a simple existence. My desire was to go to school, learn French, drawing, and a bit of music, and to own my own piano someday. I could sometimes sneak into the drawing room when Margaret went out, and I’d play the old keys of the pianoforte as much as I pleased till Grace would warn me the carriage was drawing near. My other desire was to read. I longed for books, hundreds of them, thousands. Books came into my life very rarely. They were an incredible escape from the dark clouds that seemed always to surround Lady Margaret’s eerie abode.
The sun was down completely, and I found that, lost in my thoughts, I was now sitting on the third floor landing, staring at the shadows that played on the stairs. I shook away my thoughts, putting them away for the night, and went down the hall to the room I shared with Grace. I found my friend sitting on the edge of the bed, reading from a book who’s pages looked almost as worn out as she did. She had read that same book over and over again—it was her most precious possession. There was no particular reason why—I suppose it was a gift from one of her more sensitive family members.

She looked up and smiled when she saw me. Her grin somehow made the whole world brighter at that moment.

“They’re coming soon, I think.” She said anxiously.

“Are they?” I answered, not really knowing what to say.

“Yes! I’m so excited. We hardly ever see new people around here. It should be refreshing, don’t you think?” She chattered away, without taking a single breath.

“I suppose it will be.” I said calmly, going to the window of the hall and looking out at the serene night. The moon shown like a beacon, beckoning those who suffered to came take shelter in her sparkling gaze.

A chaise and four suddenly appeared, making its way up the drive. I motioned Grace to the window, and her grin lit up the room.

“They’re here!” She said.

She dragged me down the stairs to the kitchen, where the servants were all abuzz with chit chat.

“Alright!” Shouted Henrietta. “Now we all need to do the best we can to make the master and his guest comfortable! Is that clear?”

We all murmured our yeses. Henrietta nodded obnoxiously. “Okay then. I want this half of you to go make sure the bedrooms are all spic and span. This half of you, we’re greeting the master.” She split us up and off we went.

Grace and I were in the small group of servants that got to greet the master. Once again, I felt a strange gnawing at my insides, a feeling that said that I shouldn’t have to greet my own cousin as a maid. I ignored the feeling, just as I had always done, and stood up in a straight line with the others outside of the house. The carriage pulled up, and the footman opened the doors. The carriage was all black, with gold trim, and white lace drapes in the windows. I imagined how pretty Grace and I would look riding around in something like that. For a moment, I smiled, but that vanished as soon as Master John stepped from the coach.

He puffed up his chest like the proud donkey he was, and leaped from the carriage. First, he went to his mother, and embraced he so tightly, I thought she’s be crushed to death.

“Ah, mother. I’ve missed you.” He patted her shoulders as if she were a child, and smiled like anything.

“And I, you, my son. Now where is your companion?” She asked, looking toward the carriage curiously.

Another figure appeared in the doorway of the coach, dressed in all black. His short cropped black hair shown in the moonlight, and his bright brown eyes gleamed with the hint of orange. I had never seen eyes like those. He was pale—paler than any Englishman I’d seen before, and he sported a long, purple scar above his left eye. I tried not to stare at the marking, so as not to be impolite.

He stepped from the carriage with a confidence in his step, and strode quickly to the Mistress. He bowed low, and took her hand, kissing it dramatically.

“Good evening, Lady Benson. Thank you ever so much for allowing me to pass some time in your grand dwelling.” He said, smiling. His teeth gleamed like the full moon above us.

Grace looked at me, and we both stifled our laughter.

“And these must be your humble servants, my dear John!” Proclaimed the Master’s friend.

“Yes, that they are. And fine little women at that.” John winked at his friend as if he was implying that we were skilled at more than simple dusting and cooking.

“Well, then I shall introduce myself to the company.” Said the guest, puffing up like a peacock. “My name is Mr. Monty Bryans. I own a grand estate near London called Beckden Park. You may have heard of it.” He stuck his nose up in the air proudly. We all stared silently at this Monty Bryans. He was just the kind of person John would choose to bring home to his mother.

“Well then,” Said Margaret, “Shall we all come inside for some dinner? The cook has prepared geese tonight.”

“Oh, my favorite.” Mumbled Bryans, and his splendor vanished into the house.

“Wow. What do you think of that guy?” Grace asked with a laugh hidden in her smile.

“He reminds me of a peacock.” I said bluntly. We burst into laughter with many looks from the other servants. Henrietta came along and silenced us.

Chapter Four

I hurried down the hall with the other servants, and entered the noisy bustle of the kitchen. I was instantly struck by how hot it was in there, such a cramped space, full of steaming dishes and sweating servants. Henrietta called me to her.

“The dinner is not quite ready yet. I want you to go dust down in the library. Off you go then!” She threw me a rag and pushed me out of the door, before I had time to call Grace to come with me.

I sighed and walked down the hall way to the library. No one ever entered that room but Grace and I, even though we were to stick to the third floor. Lady Margaret had never been one for reading. The library had belonged wholly to my uncle, God bless his soul. I turned the brass handle on the oaken double doors and entered the cool, peaceful, book-filled room.

I was instantly aware of a presence in the room—that was someone else was there with me. I looked around but found no one. Then, as I was just beginning to dust the mantelpiece, I turned to see Mr. Monty Bryans sitting, legs folded, on the big red armchair that belonged to my uncle.

“Good evening.” He said quietly, smiling with a charm that I didn’t know men were capable of.

I only nodded back at him, and then turned to dust the mantle like I had intended. I looked up at the clock and realized it was eight ‘o clock. A very late dinner we would be having that evening, indeed.

“This is a fine house, is it not?” Bryans asked, very quietly.

“I suppose it is.” I replied solemnly, keeping my eyes on the mantelpiece. I was a bit paranoid, I admit. But can you blame me? After all, he was a friend of John’s. And that meant trouble.

“I wonder why Lady Margaret keeps it so dull and gloomy.” He pondered, not addressing me.

“Perhaps that’s just the way she likes it. After all, she did loose her husband.”

“Ah, yes.” Sighed Bryans. “I had forgot.”

I could feel his eyes on me, as I finished with the mantel and headed over to the coffee tables.

“You are the dependant John spoke of, I presume?” He asked, lifting one eyebrow.

I looked back on him with a hard look, “Yes.” Was my simple reply.

“I only know it because John spoke of you. He said that you were the prettiest maid in the house, besides that blonde green-eyed witch, of course, what a gem.” He said, with a manly desire. I saw how he licked his lips at the mention of my friend, Grace, and I knew then that I hated him. I said nothing as he continued to speak. “Yes, well John did not lie about your beauty. Is it also true that you tell stories to the young children in town?”

“Yes.” I replied quickly. I had never prided myself on those stories. I simply made them up in my mind, and would comfort the poor children in the town nearest Lithstone with the tales. They were all fiction, of course, but I loved the excitement that shone in their eyes, the curiosity and wonder. Their smiles were all the payment I needed for my imagination.

“That’s quite a coincidence, considering that I am currently looking for playmate for my son, Nathaniel.” He said, putting a finger to his chin. “Perhaps, you would like to come to my estate, and read to him, tell him stories, that sort of thing? Of course I would pay you handsomely, and you can have your own bedroom, meals included. I would have to speak to the Lady of the house for your permission to leave.”

“No thank you.” I answered quickly. Too quickly, it seemed. Bryan stood and came over to me.

“Ileana, is it?” He asked. I nodded, fear showing in my eyes, no matter how I willed it to go away. “I'm offering you what you want most. You’re freedom. Don’t try and tell me you like this place. A servant to your own family? She treats you like you’ve sinned a thousand sins, and you sit here and just endure it. In my home, you will be paid, and given days off, and fed, and clothed. I have a sister who left many gowns that outgrew her. They are yours, if you’d have them. In my home, you will be respected. How can you refuse?”

“Because. I would not want to leave Grace. She is all I have.” I answered, holding my chin up.

“Ah, I see. So the young filly must come too then. I will speak with Lady Margaret and make the arrangements. Thank you ever so much for your consent.” Bryans spoke, a coldness creeping up into his voice. With this being said, he turned sharply on his heel and walked away.

I was left in the cold, dark room, wondering exactly what had just happened.

Chapter Five

The next day, Lady Margaret and Mr. Bryans were discussing the price of Grace and I. We huddled near the door, ears pressed tightly against the wood, and listened. I will never forget Grace’s face as they decided on a price, and the clink of coins could be heard. She looked at me with a face full of pain. I wondered why we should be so sad if we were to leave the place that had cause us the most agony. Grace seemed to read my thoughts and told me, “We do not know him, Ileana. There is something sinister about him. Something not very nice.” I knew she was right, but I kept silent and bowed my head. It was, after all, my fault that we were even being sold at all. If I would’ve refused him with more aggression, perhaps at least Grace would’ve been allowed to stay at Lithstone.

I heard Mr. Bryans’ heavy boots treading the floor and I grabbed Grace by the arm and led her away to the library. We sat down on the wooden floorboards between two massive bookshelves and stared at each other. Many thoughts we thought that night. Mixed thoughts, some happy and some sad. I tried to be positive. Perhaps Beckden Park wouldn’t be a bad place, perhaps it would be a wonderful change for us. But then I saw Grace’s face and my thoughts of happiness were few.

_________________________________________________________

We were to leave first thing in the morning. Early, before the sky even began to see light, I packed my things slowly, tediously, wondering all the while what was to happen to us. I wasn’t really worried about my self, it was Grace I was concerned for. Bryans had told me that I would tell stories to his son for pay. But what was Grace to do? My mind flittered back to the way he licked his lips when he thought of her, and I was afraid. I knew that Bryans liked her. There was nothing I could do to stop that. But if I had to, I would stop him from harming her.

Grace looked at me form across the room. She wore her best dress, a long turquoise with short sleeves trimmed with lace. She wore her crisp white gloves and held her suitcase and bonnet in her hands. I had dressed as if it was just another day. In my brown muslin and short white gloves. There was no reason to be dressed nicely. Grace came toward me and put her delicate hand on my shoulder. She said nothing, but she didn’t need to. We were friends, and would get through this together.

The bell sounded downstairs; I wondered what Margaret could possibly be doing awake at this early hour. I hurried downstairs and opened the door to the small parlor. There she was. The woman who I had been forced to call aunt my whole life. She was restless looking, as if she hadn’t gotten any sleep. Her hair was untamed and wild and her eyes had dark circles around them. She was pale and looked very sickly.

She turned to look at me, a pained expression upon her face. She began to examine me, critically, and I remembered how she hated me.

“Ileana, have a seat.” She said. I choose the seat furthest from her and waited. “Many years we have known each other.” She began, “And for many years I have questioned God.” She stared at me calmly. “I asked Him why He would leave me with some brat of a child, I alone and widowed, without a friend in the world and only a small fortune to make my way through life. I asked Him why me? Why I had to support such a child. Why did I have to be a mother to a girl who was so dark, so depressed, so strange. You were not normal. You were never normal. I was ridiculed by all who knew me. They would ask me why I raised such a child, and why she was so odd. All I could tell them was that you weren't mine. And thank the lord for that."

“What do you mean by all of this?” I asked quickly.

“Let me finish.” She said firmly. “I have sold you to Mr. Monty Bryans, one of the wealthiest men in the country who lives in one of the grandest homes in all of England. He came to me and asked for the price of Grace and yourself. I was grieved, you can imagine, at hearing that Grace must go as well. But it was the only way he would take you off my hands, and so I had to give her up also." Her eyes slowly roved over me, taking in my broken appearance, my face that was pale and my eyes that were heavy with lost sleep. Her lips curved into a disgusted grimace and something inside of me snapped. I realized her incredible cruelty and for some reason, I felt that I did not deserve her harsh criticism. I stood.

"What joy do you find in the suffering of others?" I asked her, my neck and face hot with rage. For a moment she was taken aback, and then her face tightened, and that look of superiority appeared once again in her dark eyes. "You have never loved me. I have done everything you asked, and still you deny me the only thing that I ever wanted in my life."

"And what is that?" Margaret asked, eyes glaring.

"Kindness!" I cried, exasperated. "You have never lived through a day without insulting me, and even on the day of my departure from you, perhaps forever, you cannot survive without delivering my one last blow!" She stared up at me, her eyes beginning to shrink with fear. "Have you no guilt or shame? I am your niece. I am family. I am more deserving of love that that slob of a son you so dote on!" I realized that I was crying, and angrily wiped away my tears.

Margaret showed no sign of shame. I stared at her for a long time before saying, "You are a coward. You hide behind your cruelty and think that no one sees you. But I see you. Is that why you hate me so? Do I threaten you?" I asked her this and she made no reply. Her face simply reflected fear. "You will never forget me. Not a day will pass that you will not think of me, and hurt. You will suffer from your own indifference. I hope you are happy with what you've become." I spat.

I glared at her, and she grew frightened. Without wishing her goodbye, I turned sharply on my heel and walked swiftly away. I never saw her again.