Show them the joy and the pain and the ending
For a moment, she is someone else. Someone as free and fierce as the wind, with haunting visions in her eyes and untamed thoughts in her head. But then she wakes up with a start, dreams and reality jangling inside her skull like a broken bell. She doesn’t know why, but she feels the sudden urge to look at herself. The mirror. The thought is there, in her mind, but for a moment it feels heavy and odd.
Throwing the blankets from her pajama clad legs, she hurries over to the dressing table across the room. It is an old piece – though she cannot be sure just how old – but it has been lovingly cared for, the oak wood dark and warm with years of gentle touches interspersed by cleaning and polishing. The smooth glass of the mirror is unpitted and clean, offering a perfect reflection (she is certain it has been replaced at least once or twice).
The pale face staring back at her is framed by a mass of wild red hair, clear eyes wide and blue in milk-white features dotted by a sparse spray of freckles. It is surreal, looking at her face in that perfect mirror, almost as though it does not belong. But then the pieces click into place and the moment is forgotten.
She is Heartfire, daughter of Nicholas and Raelle, a college professor and a private tutor. In truth, her parents are more poets than anything else. Perhaps it could not be their life, but it is their passion. It is how she had ended up with such an unusual name. Who knows what they had been reading when they found it, but her mother had been pregnant, she had been born with red hair, and as they say, the rest is history.
With a soft sigh, she sits at the chair before the dressing table, still staring at her wan features in the dim light. For a moment, she wonders what will become of her in this unsettled world. Unrest echoes in the streets as everybody holds their breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Her family does well enough, but they are not in the protected upper echelons, nor are they so poor as to avoid notice by those stirring the pot. Her parents are worried, but she is not. Not yet, at least.
Change is coming, and she has every intention of being right in the middle of it.
--
The notification comes at breakfast. Her father is sitting in his usual place at the head of the table, her mother to his right and she to the left, when the notice of an announcement arrives in the post. It is an invitation (more, a demand) to appear at the town square to hear what the King and Queen have to say.
Her interest is immediately piqued. She snatches the card from her father the moment he is finished reading it, bright blue eyes scanning the text for any clue as to what the announcement may be. When she finds nothing beyond the simple message printed in plain black text upon a white sheet, she tosses the paper to the table, leaning back against the stiff ladder-back chair with a sigh of disgust. Her mother’s censure is palpable as she stares at her from across their breakfast in silent admonishment.
Heartfire only offers her mother a small, tight-lipped smile in response. To be honest, if they hadn’t managed to instill more decorum into her by now, it’s unlikely they would succeed at this late date.
And the red-haired girl is perfectly fine with that.
--
When the time comes, she joins her parents for the short trip to the town square. The normally bustling market is bursting with people today, the cobbled streets and narrow stalls overflowing with the curious, shoppers, and rambunctious children. The noise is deafening, but Heartfire ignores the assault to her ears as her bright gaze scans the crowd, a small grin lingering at the corners of her lips as she finds friends and acquaintances scattered throughout the busy square.
With only a few short delays and snippets of conversation caught between the din of the crowd, she nears the podium. Her parents halt when the mass becomes too thick to pass through easily, arms linked as they glance around, looking for the Royal messenger while talking animatedly. Heartfire uses their distraction to slip away, edging nearer to the podium.
Her mother notices, of course, her sharp exclamation of ”Heartfire!” ringing behind her as she squeezes through the packed bodies. She ignores it, though she does not doubt she would pay for it later. She has always been a bit of a wild card, living her simple life as close to the edge as she dares. And right now, her mother’s anger registers as only a blip on the radar of her awareness.
Besides, her parents love her too much to punish her too terribly for any perceived crimes.
A few moments of wiggling and shimmying bring her much closer to the stage. Planting herself in a relatively open spot, she finds herself standing next Madame Wilmet, a dress-maker and notorious gossip. It takes her only half a moment to recognize Heartfire, giving her all the opportunity she needs to lean in and start talking, offering, unsolicited she might add, her rather tart opinion on the presence of so many soldiers. Heartfire only nods, rolling her eyes as she turns away to watch the happenings on the platform.
As a tall, rather rotund man makes his way onstage, Heartfire straightens, chasing a wayward strand of fiery hair from her eyes with slender fingers as her gaze fixes on the messenger. In record time, the noise level diminishes to almost nothing.
The message the man imparts leaves Heartfire momentarily agape. The announcement of such a contest is not even remotely something she had expected from the Royal family. Snapping to the present, she glances around, trying the gauge the response of the crowd. The man has not even managed to exit the stage before sound erupts from the waiting crowd. The screaming girls and conspiring parents debating the merits of such an event could likely be heard by the deaf.
As the square slowly clears, Heartfire stands rooted to the spot. Her mind is running over the possibilities with frantic interest, debating the pros and cons of entering such an event. At nineteen, she just barely makes the cutoff, but does she truly wish to take part in such a time-wasting, inane event?
Certainly it is an intriguing prospect, but she has little interest in actually marrying the Prince. Men are great and all, but there are so many better things to give her attention to.
In the end, it is really no decision at all. Realistically her odds of actually being selected are next to none, and if by some miracle she does get chosen, it would be a truly enlightening experience. At the very least, she might learn something useful about the Royal family.
Choice made, she turns towards the retreating crowd. She has never been one to vacillate, and having made up her mind, she sees no point in wasting her time any further. She would submit the application and let fate (or whoever made those decisions) take it from there. It takes her only a moment to find her parents, who happen to be browsing the stalls of goods, and inform them of her decision. It surprises her not at all that both are completely on-board. Her mother has, after all, been dropping hints for some time now that it is perhaps time she settle down.
She doesn’t waste her breath trying to tell her mother that the likelihood of her being chosen is almost non-existent.
The line at the town hall is already long, an impressive number of people having already decided to enter themselves into the contest. There is quite a bit of excited chatter as they wait for the doors to open, though Heartfire, for her part, remains largely silent.
As soon as the doors open, the line surges forward. The volume doubles as people begin shouting excitedly and pushing forward to get their grasping fingers upon one of those precious pieces of paper. Heartfire slaps a hand to her mouth as laughter threatens to erupt.
“Good lord, you’d think that paper is made of gold the way these people are grabbing it,” she says to her mother, struggling to contain her giggles. In truth, it’s either laugh or turn away in disgust, and she would much rather laugh.
She can almost feel her mother’s sigh as Raelle reaches up to comb her fingers through Heartfire’s hair in a futile attempt to tame the wild strands. ”Dear Heart,” her mother begins protractedly, causing Heartfire to press her hand to her mouth in order to stifle the grin tugging at her lips. She knows that tone all too well. She’d have thought her mother would have given up on these kinds of lectures eons ago. ”With that attitude, I don’t know why you’re even bothering to enter,” she says plaintively. ”Do I need to remind you that you are also standing in line for one of those golden pieces of paper?” The last is said in a tone that only a long-suffering mother can achieve, accompanied by a distinctly exasperated glance.
Clearing her throat, Heartfire drops her hand from her lips, still struggling to keep the laughter from her lips. ”Of course not, mother.” Her tone is as serious as she can make it, given the situation. ”But here, let me show you how a rational person should behave when doing this.” With the last quip barely off her tongue, she steps forward to receive an application with a dignity that belies her former mirth.
Application in hand, Heartfire retreats with her parents to a small table provided for the express purpose of filling out such pieces of paper. It takes only a moment find a pen (thank heavens for her father’s penchant of keeping one on his person at all times. The college professor in him at work) and then Heartfire and her mother are hunched over the small table, reading and answering the questions in soft whispers.
Heartfire thinks that some of the questions are rather odd, but then, she has never needed to conduct a search for a husband before. Really, do they actually need to know her favorite animal? Color, she might be able to understand, even flower she could understand. But what is he going to do, give her a lynx? The rest – height, weight, hair color, eye color, measurements (really?), talents, likes, dislikes – she could maybe see some merit to. But the whole thing seems a little ridiculous to her all the same.
Still, what are the odds?
--
Two weeks later, the Selected are announced. To be honest, Heartfire had nearly forgotten she had entered. Of course, the way people kept nattering on about the whole business, it would have been impossible to completely forget, but she did her very best.
That is, until the Selection announcement was released and her name was among the chosen.
To say that she had been surprised, shocked, flabbergasted, would have been an understatement. And now, in the span of about forty five minutes, her life has been turned completely upside down. First come the well-wishers. Their friends and neighbors are at their door in a matter of minutes, arriving at lightning speed to congratulate her and revel in the glory of knowing someone who has been propelled into fame in a matter of minutes.
And then come the government officials and the reporters. For the most part, the guards and palace officials keep the nosy reporters at bay, but they cannot stop the excitement and shouted questions any time they catch sight of her. It does not take her long to decide that this would get really old, really fast.
Nor does it take her long to regret her (rather impulsive) decision to enter into the contest.
--
The next day she is woken early to prepare for her journey to the Royal palace. She is fortunate perhaps that her parents are not totally destitute as that means she actually has some decent clothing to wear. Rosalie, the woman who seems to be in charge of the retinue of guards and staff, had been prompt in informing her of their expectations and of what would happen once she arrives at the palace. Apparently, one of the perks of being among the Selected is a new wardrobe, but not until she actually gets to the palace.
She cannot help the small piece of her that gets a little thrill out of those words. She is a woman who likes clothes, after all.
In short order, she is awake and clothed in an emerald green dress that complements her hair and complexion. It is one of her best dresses, made of finer cloth than her everyday wear, with a scooped neckline and a bodice that fits snugly against her slender frame before falling into a long, smooth skirt. While she might be rather scornful of this entire spectacle, at the very least she will look good as she makes a fool of herself.
After a hastily consumed breakfast, she, along with her family, is ushered from their home and into a carriage that would take them to the train station. The carriage is rather plain, similar to ones she has been in a hundred times before, but the train is another story entirely. On the outside, it looks like any other train traveling along the winding tracks, but stepping into the large car is akin to stepping into another world. The interior is plush and elegant, bedecked in lustrous satin and velvet upholstery in vibrant hues of teal and ochre. The warmth of the polished wood tables, benches, and accents lend a more intimate atmosphere to the car than might otherwise be expected of such an opulent space. For a moment, Heartfire can only stare in slack-jawed amazement.
Her amazement does not last for long however, before quickly giving way to curiousity. Stepping lightly into the car, the normal click of her boot heel is silenced by thick carpeting. She does a single circuit of the space, peering out windows and through doors into the attached cars. But as Rosalie clears her throat to capture her attention, she is forced to abandon her inspection.
”Miss Wickham, we will be leaving shortly. Now would be the time to bid your parents farewell,” the woman says as she stands stiffly near the entrance. Heartfire wonders briefly if perhaps she has a stick up her spine, but, wisely, she refrains from commenting.
Within a matter of minutes she has hugged her parents and bade them goodbye. And then the doors are closed just before the train lurches into motion. The journey itself is several hours long – most of which Heartfire spends with her nose all but pressed against the window as she watches the landscape flash by – interrupted only briefly by a midday luncheon. Green hills and blue sky whir past her window, interspersed occasionally by wood and brick and glass as they pass a town. No further stops are made, so without any delay, they arrive at the capital’s train station.
From there she is taken to the palace by horse. Her mare is a lovely, quiet creature with a slim frame, soft brown eyes, and a coat of the palest dappled gray. She pauses a moment to stroke the mare’s neck, memory niggling at the back of her mind as she does so.
She has no time to ponder it however, as she is soon assisted into the saddle by an ever vigilant palace guard. She feels somewhat awkward and heavy and she settles into the side saddle, both legs slung over the left side of the mare. Hopefully she is not inclined to do anything too outrageous, Heartfire thinks, otherwise she would certainly fall. While she has had opportunity to ride before, it has always been astride, so the experience is a rather novel one.
The scenery as they approach the palace is stunningly gorgeous, but nothing compared to her first sighting of the palace as they crest a small hill. Turrets spiral into the clear sky from a luxurious and sprawling building the color of lemon chiffon. The stonework is massive and exquisite, the sight of which, when combined with the rest of the picturesque building, quite takes her breath away.
She should really stop being so impressed. All of this awe is not doing anything for her reputation (never mind the fact that no one here actually knows anything of her reputation. Semantics).
Her feelings as they enter the palace are mixed, part excitement and part antipathy. She had never actually expected to be here, but now that she is, she cannot quite decide how to make the best of it. In truth, she is mostly overwhelmed, though she would never admit to such a thing.
The tour takes much of the afternoon, becoming tumbled and hazy amidst a whirlwind of marble and gilt and silken tapestries. Before she knows it, she has been deposited in a suite of rooms as beautiful and ostentatious as the rest of the palace with only a parting reminder that she would be served dinner in her rooms.
She takes the brief respite to survey her space, elegantly appointed in lovely shades of rose and cream. She lingers at a large side table with scrolling woodwork before pausing in front of a gilt-framed mirror to inspect her pale features. Her blue eyes look too large for her face, her freckled cheeks pale in the dimming light. Jerking herself away from her reflection with a disgruntled huff, she moves to the lounge area and settles herself onto the pink satin settee to wait.
Dinner arrives with maid, whose name she learns is Amy, and a reprieve from her tumbling thoughts. After dinner, she convinces Amy (with no small amount of effort on her part) that she is perfectly capable of undressing herself before retiring to her new (and no doubt very temporary) bedroom. Once in an unsurprisingly luxurious nightgown, she settles into a massive bed as downy soft as a basket of kittens, and before she knows, she is drifting off into sleep.
Heartfire
i filled up my senses with thoughts from the ghosts