Astrid

I should not have come here.

There was never any true choice on my part – no consent to be optioned to the voiceless. My skittish horse refuses to be placated by the gentle strokes I offer him, so I resort to humming a soft lullaby, one my mother taught me from distant memories. He starts to recognize the familiarity behind my voice and lowers his head in abeyance.

I tie him to an old, rickety post that looks like the final remnant of a small structure and leave him to graze. At least the breeze is sweeter here, far from the smoking chimneys and ruckus of ordinary townsfolk. This place gives me the illusion of being free.

But that holds no truth.

I am not free.

I am a prisoner, a prisoner to my father’s mistakes and my own recklessness. I should never have regretted the mundanity of my own home; its frivolous affairs hold much more comfort than the stone steps that lead up to the massive doors. Before me, the castle triumphs over my head, boasting of its power over me.

Resisting the weakness in my knees, I push one door open with all my might. It gives way to nothingness, to a dark, cold promise of no return.

My nightmare has just begun.

Before

Plain.

All these people are plain. All these colours, the glistening chandeliers, the music, the merriment – they pale in comparison to where I was just an hour ago, curled up with a book in my lap on the chair beside my bedroom window.

I used to love attending parties like this. They are, after all, the only highlight in this drab existence we call a town. All other days are occupied with work and gossip and whatever else these people do to cope with everyday life.

One of my father’s friends comes up to greet me. He is joined seconds later by his wife, a woman whose austere presence expertly hides the kindness within those sharp eyes, which I only know exists because she used to help my mother watch over me as a child whenever she fell sick.

That used to be a common occurrence.

Lady Tremaine spots the book in my hand with her hawk-like gaze and scowls.

“I do wish you would have the common decency to set that thing down at a social affair,” she chides. “It does not do to stick out like a sore thumb among the women here.”

“Perhaps,” I respond sweetly. “If the men here were not so shallow and prideful, they would learn to admire the tenacity of a lady who has learnt to decipher alphabets.”

Her husband, Sir Rotwell’s eyebrows shoot up. But he is used to my bluntness. “Prideful, yes. But shallow? You cannot accuse a man of being shallow lest he prioritizes your beauty over this little oddity of yours.”

I would have remarked that he is making little to no sense, but my father comes to his rescue in time. “Frederik, Portia! I see you have returned from your voyage.”

Sir Rotwell gives him a hearty embrace. My father wraps his arm around the fabric on my shoulder. His breathing tonight is more labored than usual; I can hear a shaky roughness in his exhales. When I glance up at him and raise an eyebrow in inquisition, he shakes his head so quickly, the gesture is almost negligible. “Tell me, when will you leave again? I have a few new instruments ready.”

Rotwell smiles, but there is a tenseness in his eyes – a familiar, but kinder reaction to my father’s work as opposed to the looks the rest of this town usually gives.

“Still going about your tinkering business, eh, Gared?”

“Inventions, Frederik. Not mere tinkering. And you should know that they are in high demand in the more fast-moving cities. Just the other day, I sold ten laundry contraptions in Eikenherd. They have placed orders for fifteen more.”

Lady Tremaine claps once. “Oh, Gared! How wonderful!”

“And I shall make one for you, free of charge.”

Sir Rotwell nods graciously. “Then I must take you on my next voyage, shan’t I? Perhaps even take your daughter along one of our trips.”

At that, my ears perk up. “Truly?” I ask in disbelief.

He nods, but my father laughs nervously. Again there is that rattle resounding from his chest. “When she comes of age, perhaps. And finds herself a husband to expense as many trips as she pleases.”

Lady Tremaine clicks her tongue. “That, I’m afraid, would require her to take her head out of those pages and stop turning her nose up at suitors.”

I pull a face. Shame. Perhaps if a suitor would allow me to live on my own and send me on various solo travels, I might consider marriage.

“Speaking of suitors…” she turns her head discreetly to survey the crowds. Within seconds, her satin-gloved hand darts out and catches a passing bachelor mid-air, like a bear hunting for fish in water.

“Mr. Henley, is that you?” she gasps in feigned, innocuous shock. “My, how you’ve grown. Has it been nine months since we met?”

“Lady Tremaine.” The boy nods his head politely. “It’s been little over a year, I believe.”

“Hmm,” she muses for a split second before gesturing to me. “I do not suppose you have met Miss Flynn?”

He has. Of course he has. We all know each other in this town.

“Astrid.” He takes my hand and brings it to his lips.

I curtsy. “Keenan. Last I saw you, you were on your way to becoming an apprentice.”

He beams proudly. “Yes, indeed. I have returned on a five-month leave – which means we shall bump into each other more often, shan’t we?”

Pursing my lips, I try not to squirm when his gaze sweeps over my dress fleetingly.

“Just so,” I mumble.

Keenan turns to speak to my father, who has released his protective hold of me – much to my dismay – and then to Sir Rotwell before inviting me to dance. Lady Tremaine shoots me a death glare, so I begrudgingly comply and leave my book with my father for safekeeping.

Dancing at social affairs is tedious. Learning to dance, on the other hand, is a thrill. The difference between the two is that there is less time for idle conversation in the latter.

Nonetheless, I respond to Keenan’s questions and prod him for stories from beyond. By the time we skip and weave in and out of the other dancers, I find that, perhaps, I should have relaxed a little sooner.

As soon as the first dance ends, another man approaches us. At first I cannot recognize that shade of sand in his hair and register him as a friend of Keenan’s. They greet each other with a hearty handshake before they turn to me.

“You remember Damian,” Keenan grins. “Do you not?”

My eyebrows lift in surprise. Damian, the boy who used to follow me around all those years ago? Impossible.

When he asks Keenan for permission to steal his dance partner, I fold my arms and silently dare Keenan to decline. To his credit, he does not.

Damian leads me to join the dancers in the middle of the hall once more.

“Lady Astrid,” he says, picking my hand up to bring it to his lips. He knows I hold no title. Yet, the sultry tone he wears makes it just so. Around us, the other dancers bow in resignation to their partners.

“Lieutenant Federer,” I reply with a curtsy. “Back so soon?”

“I believe it’s Captain now, my lady. And it has been three years.”

My lower lip pouts. His eyes trail upon it. “Three years? Well. Time truly flies, does it not? You don’t look a day older.”

He actually does. Before Damian left to rejoin his regiment, he was only a freckled boy with wide, curious eyes that turn the shade of hazelnuts under the sun and a mischievous smile. Now only his mischievous smile remains as we weave in and out of the parade of dancers; but his eyes are sure. They settle on me. A lock of hair strays from his perfectly-groomed cut and falls over his forehead.

“You have grown, Astrid, and I must say: time has been kind to you. That dress wears you very nicely.”

“Why, this old thing?” I shoot him my slow, signature smile, the one that makes people stare. It works. “You’ve gotten clever with your words, Damian. Is it another skill they teach you in the army?”

“One I am most grateful for, now that we’ve run into each other again.”

We rejoin each other. His grip on my waist is certain, but I do not linger in his touch. As soon as the notes from the stringed instruments lift, I part from him, grinning over my shoulder as the women shift to their next partner.

When the music ends, Damian looks as if he is applauding me rather than the musicians. I turn away and pretend to be awed by the entertainers’ skill.

When I rejoin Lady Tremaine, the corners of her lips draw out into a coy smile.

“My, is that the Federer boy? A dashing young lad, do you not think?”

I shrug nonchalantly. “Perhaps.”

She flicks her fan in my direction. “Oh, nonsense, girl. Don’t you go around playing another one of your games with the poor boy. Enough of them have suffered from your lack of attention.”

“Attention is not given as a kindness, madam,” I say. “It is earned.”

She goes on to mutter some admonition, but my mind suddenly grows weary again. I start to search the crowd for the book in my father’s hand.