Her feet touched the chilled wooden floor, recoiling before letting the two meet. A grandfather clock’s pendulum swung, accompanying the suddenly audible ticking. The many various sized windows that coated the house were thoroughly misted over with fog, making the incoming light translucent. Eyes were rubbed, shortly followed by an overwhelming yawn and stretch of arms towards the heavens. A loud groan came from the bed’s mattress springs as the girl stood up, alerting the once unjostled atmosphere. The old canopy bed wobbled before coming to a halt. She looked around, her now blurry vision becoming sharper by the second. Her extravagantly carved wardrobe was parallel to where she stood, the flowers engraved upon its surface looking more realistic than usual. A little bit left of that was a rather large trunk with a hefty silver latch containing contents tightly. A bit farther away the wall extended out with bends to give an octagon-like shape; a protruding space set apart, adorned with windows that displayed a limited view of the city’s interior.

      Subconsciously, the girl slipped off her night robe and fumbled through her grandiose wardrobe critically, rejecting each gown one by one until she had narrowed it down to two. After much deliberation, she selected a light blue gown with a faint glisten that was simple, yet gorgeous all the same. After putting on petticoats and a most unpleasing corset, she pulled the gown over her head gently, letting the delicate fabric caress her skin softly. She loved this dress, for it was her mother’s long ago, and every time she wore it she felt as if she were her beautiful mother, lovely and adored by all. After adjusting the gown so that it rested naturally upon her 6’0” frame, she felt older and much more of a lady, even if she struggled with every breath since her corset was restraining her air passageway. Finally, she slipped on her best pair of shoes, even though it was unlikely that anyone would get a glimpse of them hidden deeply beneath her many layers of skirts and attire.

      When she was all dressed, she sat down upon a cushion that was set before a rather lengthy mirror. With steady hands she took off her nightcap that contained her many locks of golden hair. As if sighing her golden curls fell and laid quite comfortably upon her shoulders, taking their natural positions casually. She ran a brush through some fussy knots and pulled her hair into a strict bun atop her head. Not a single strand fought its way through and she smiled at her reflection in the mirror, hoping that she would see everything that she wasn’t. The smile sank into a frown, as her reflection didn’t alter in front of her eyes. Still the same long face with a high forehead, a long straight nose with a hook at the end that took up a good portion of her face, high cheekbones, oval eyes that slanted sharply inwards, a mass of unwanted freckles, freakishly thin lips, and abnormally large ears. She turned abruptly from the mirror and prayed that her gown would make up for her lack of beauty.

      A knock came lightly upon the door, distracting the girl for a second. She cleared her throat, “Yes?” Had she slept in too late? That was so unlike her…plus, so un-lady like. “Tea and scones, Ma’am,” the voice answered, a bit shaky as if waiting, terrified of rejection. The creaky door opened, and a maid stood trembling, the tray in her hands rattling as she shook. “Call me Francine, please,” the girl replied in annoyance, hating the way the maid looked at her as if expecting to be attacked. Francine realized that in a way she was attacking the maid with her rudeness. “Forgive me,” Francine apologized distractedly, “Tea would be fine.”

      The maid hobbled over, a smile almost appearing on her face. She wanted so badly for Francine to befriend her; to treat her like a fellow peer. Sadly though, Francine couldn’t even remember her name. She was just another maid among the many, her only purpose being service, and nothing more. It was her place, and she learned long ago that changing her status was impossible, she had to accept where she stood on the status pyramid whether she liked it or not. But on the other hand, how she longed to be noticed by anyone instead of quickly being labeled as a meek, plain girl who’s child-like appearance had people often mistaking her as a little girl when she was already at the ripe age of seventeen.

      Francine noticed the girl’s fascination with her, and returned the weak smile with her own, then took a cup of tea from the tray curtly, sipping from it with her pinky sticking out in a lady-like manner. She wasn’t hungry, truly. Nevertheless, she took a bite out of the scone, making sure no crumbs assaulted her, and set it upon the tray. Francine felt a little uncomfortable, for the maid was still staring at her big-eyed. She had never taken much notice in her maids, for the all were pretty much the same: quiet, obedient, and polite. This girl however, was different. Her maid’s attire sat awkwardly upon her chubby frame, her hair was thin and straight, a deep crimson-brown, her eyes were huge and puppy-like; begging for attention, and she had full lips; the kind perfect for teasing pout or full smile. Basically, she was everything Francine wasn’t.

      Trying to be kind, Francine looked at the girl as if talking to a child, “What’s your name?” The maid jumped a bit, and her took her a while to regain her balance. “Daphne,” the girl swiped a loose stand of hair from her face nervously. “Well, nice to met you Daphne,” and when Francine was finally done nibbling at the hard scone, she set it upon the tray and signaled for Daphne to go away with a wave of her hand. When she door was closed again, Francine went back to the mirror, and applied some powder. She could hear horses hooves dancing upon the street, and hurried down to meet her carriage. Today was going to be a good day she could just feel it.

“Ow!” Francine howled as passerby stepped on her toe. She looked around to see if she could find the source of the pain-giver, but the crowd enclosed around her quickly and she couldn’t see through the layers of thick fabric that lay upon the many frames of passer-bys. With a sigh she lifted up her skirt and boarded her carriage. Once she was situated the carriage jerked forward. A moan escaped Francine’s lips as she examined her shoe. “Miss, if there something wrong?” her coachman asked, looking over his shoulder while steering the shiny coated horses. “My shoe is ruined!” she exclaimed, touching the dent that bent her shoe inwards with delicate fingers. “Now what am I supposed to wear?” she complained, placing her head in her hands dramatically. “If you want to go back-“ the coachman offered but was abruptly interrupted by Francine “-No, it’s too late for that.” Lost for words, the coachman whipped the reins of the horses, remaining silent as Francine fumed behind him. After a few more miles of heavy sighing and groaning a mansion came in view. The carriage halted and the coachman went around to let Francine out, who sat cross-armed, staring at the damaged shoe that lay in front of her longingly. The coachman still felt uneasy and gently approached her, “Miss, your hand,” he held out his arm so that she could be helped out but she didn’t take notice. “It was a gift from my mother,” Francine said, as if talking to the shoe, a sad tone in her voice. “It can be replaced, you have lots of other beautiful shoes, dear.” This didn’t satisfy Francine. “But not like these,” she whined. Apparently these shoes meant a great deal to her, the coachman presumed. “Here, we’ll figure it out later, you’re late already,” he said, glancing at his pocket watch warily, he wasn’t in the mood for scolding. “Fine.” Francine finally gave in, ignoring his extended arm as she snatched the shoe up and stumbled out of the carriage. She glared at the coachman, and he recoiled, settling himself back into his coach seat and watched as Francine bobbed her way to the huge doors on one shoe, and exited through the gate, eager to be freed from her. 

After clanking the golden doorknocker three times it opened to reveal a luxurious interior. “Ah, Miss Francine, we’ve been waiting for you,” a middle-aged butler greeted her, bowing as he held the door open. “I had…troubles,” Francine said and followed the butler to the tearoom. “Miss Elaine, I present to you Miss Francine,” he announced upon entering the room. A porcelain lady sat proudly in an overstuffed high backed chair and Francine curtsied to her. “Come, sit down,” the lady said, indicating an identical chair beside her. Francine hobbled over, trying not to twist her ankle while balancing on her one shoe. Somehow the chairs seemed farther away than usual due to her mishap. Once she had sat down the lady looked at the shoe that was cradled within Francine’s hands. “Ah, what do we have here?” she said, taking the shoe gently away from Francine as if treating it like a newborn infant. “Hmmm…this must be taken care of!” she announced after turning the shoe over a few times. She waved the butler over who still stood stiffly parallel to the doorframe. “Take this to Molly,” she commanded, handing over the shoe.

Once he was dismissed Francine turned to face her aunt. “Aunt Elaine-thank you so much-you have no idea how much it means to me “ she said, clasping her hands together. “Think nothing of it,” her aunt answered, waving it away her hand. “Now, where did we finish last time? Ah, the embroidering,” her aunt said, retrieving her sewing kit from beside her chair to work on their daily needlework. Francine did likewise, pulling her embroidering work from beside her into her lap, setting her supplies neatly around her. “Yours is coming along quite nicely,” her aunt commented and Francine smiled, staring down at her neat stitches. She selected a fine gold thread to work into her work, interweaving in and out mechanically. Out of the corner of her eye, Francine peeked at her aunt’s needlework. At the moment her Aunt Elaine was embroidering the hem of an elegant dress fit enough for a queen. Diamond stitches accompanied couching and laid stitches, all complicated and precise. The outcome of her work was marvelous. “When do I get to sew dresses?” Francine asked, feeling slightly childish for acting impatient. “Soon my dear…soon…” her aunt replied, concentrating on her work.

About half after noon Francine left her aunt, grateful that she only had to spend a few hours with her. It wasn’t that she didn’t like her aunt; it was just that she was awfully bored after an hour of sewing, a teatime break, a calligraphy lesson, and posture practice. Her ankle began to hurt too. Luckily though, the head maid, Molly had been able to patch up her shoe so that Francine couldn’t even tell that it had been mutilated in the first place.

“Bye!” Francine waved to her aunt from the carriage as it pulled away. Once out of sight she let out a loud sigh. “How was your morning, miss?” the coachman asked in his monotone voice. “Dull.” She didn’t need to act all nice and perfect anymore. “Well, I have some good news for you then,” the butler said, trying to cheer her up. “Mmm?” Francine perked up with interest like a dog whose name was just called. “Your father scheduled a lunch date for you two. We’re heading over to Marie’s right now.” Francine sat up in her seat, “Really?” she asked. “Really,” her butler replied, smiling at Francine’s enthusiasm, “We’ll be meeting him at Esmeralda’s.”  Francine grinned. It had been a week since she had last seen her Father, Mr. Stanton. “What a lovely place to eat,” Francine said aimply, settling down in her carriage seat again, thinking about what she would say to Father. She had so many things to tell him!

The ride back into town seemed considerably longer, mostly due to Francine’s impatience. “Are we there yet?” Francine asked, peering over the side of the carriage, struggling to see ahead. “Just about, Ma’am.” She could already hear the pitter patter of the hooves of the horses and see the extravagantly architecture in the buildings ahead of her. A young man passed by her on a horse, riding triumphantly. She looked, admiring his stature and proud smile embedded with dimples, and he turned and waved to her. She blushed the color of a freshly picked strawberry, and turned away from the blond-haired man, pretending to be fascinated with a boutique across the road. Right when she thought he had left, she glanced behind her to see him trotting on a trail beside the carriage. He caught her eye again, and she whipped her head around, staring straight ahead as if nothing happened. Subconsciously she fiddled with a ring on her left hand, twirling in around in circles, a nervous habit. “Miss?” a voice came beside her, and she jumped. “Y-yes?” the man had caught up with the carriage, galloping at a relaxed pace to keep up with the carriage. “What’s your name?” he peered up at her, as if seeing an angel. “My name?” she thought aloud. “Victoria? Elizabeth? Mary?” he began guessing, seeing as she wasn’t giving a name. “Francine,” she replied softly, “Francine Marie Stanton.” He ran a hand through his hair, which tossed in the wind as he bounced along on the saddle, “Ah, of course, the famous Francine Marie Stanton,” he extended his hand to take hers. She reached out as he kissed the surface of her hand, “It’s a pleasure to meet you….Francine,” he emphasized her name as if personalizing it just for her. Francine took her hand back, holding it in her own. “I’m Landon Stern,” he introduced himself, and then looked around panicked, as if he had been an escaped convict that feared to be found. “What’s wrong?” Francine titled her head in empathy, looking at his large mauve eyes, but he wasn’t paying attention to her, his focus was somewhere else. “It’s….her,” he shuddered, as if talking to himself. Francine followed his gaze and it landed a few hundred feet ahead of them, and Francine looked off into the distance, shielding her eyes from the sun by placing her hand just below her eyebrows at a parallel angle. A young lady, about 24 with fiery hair, and most likely a fiery temper by the way her eyebrows were scrunched in a scowl, stood on her tiptoes, looking above the heads around her. “Where is he?!” Francine saw the lady mouth the words. Then, as if she had known she was looking at her, she looked directly at Francine, and then saw Landon by her side. “Here she comes…” Landon said, pathetically. Indeed she was coming, storming through the mob of people around her, oblivious to their presence. Large bags hung on the crooks of her elbows, and she strained to hold them up as she proceeded forward their way. “Run,” Landon said firmly to Francine, his eyes locked straight ahead, filled with fear. As if on cue, her carriage driver whipped the reins and they jolted down the street, the wheels bumping as random awkward cobblestones hid them at odd angles. Some strands of her golden hair escaped as they flew, and Francine looked back longingly at Landon, who now stood as if awaiting his own death.