If I'm being completely honest, I would admit that my room was an absolute mess. Since I enjoy lying to myself, I like to refer to it as something along the lines of 'eccentrically organized'.

I only had one bookshelf, a shabby looking thing that I had rescued from the discard pile a few years ago when they had done extensive spring cleaning in the guest wing of the castle. I picked up a few things here and there that would be able to survive a bit longer with proper care; the paint is peeling on most of them, but they're fairly structurally sound. It just seemed tragic to throw them away before the end of their natural lifespan.

I had filled it with an assortment of non-book items; they were by and large trinkets, scholar's supplies, and knickknacks lumped together in a somewhat hazardous jumble that I fully intended to organize when I found the time.

The books that probably should have been on the shelf (or, strictly speaking, returned to the library) were stacked around the edges of the square-shaped living area, mixed in with official-looking papers that I made the executive decision to ignore until I had nothing better to do than process and file them.

The desk was in a similar state, with the addition of ink stains and shattered quills to complete the overall look the quarters of a distracted scholar. The papers here were mostly stacked off to the side in an organized chaotic lump; the main difference was that most of those were random drawings I had made in my spare time. I had my mother's talent towards making things, and I found it cathartic to sit in peace for a moment, center myself, and make something reflective of my current emotions. My stepmother encouraged this, providing materials when I requested. The ink was usually sufficient; I had another room down the hall that I used for painting that was in a slightly better state.

I capped the inkwell that I had forgotten to cover last night, feeling a vague sense of accomplishment for remembering that. It was likely slightly dried out at this point, but I excused it with the blanket reasoning that such was the life of an artist.

A junior maid had been assigned to my room, but I had negotiated with her to leave my things alone; I would keep trash and clothes in their designated receptacles and she would only worry about sweeping the floor she could access, changing the bed linens, and keeping everything dust-free. It was her influence that pushed my books and papers to the edges of the room and keeping a clear path through the center. She claimed it was hazardous to her health to leave it strewn about.

The only items I needed from in here were my pocket watch, a pair of sturdy boots, and a ribbon to tie my hair back.

The pocket watch was a time-worn bronze disc hailing from a generation-long before mine. It had been a gift from my grandfather on my mother's side, and I treasured it as my one remaining present from him before he had passed away. It was a fey relic, useless for all practical purposes since it measured time on the position of the moon and stars, and required some quick arithmetic to translate into more human hours. It was far more useful as a good luck charm than a practical item, and I always made sure to keep it on hand for social events. I needed all the help I could get.

My boots were fancy enough for formal wear and comfortable enough for ease of use. Her majesty provided a room stocked with clothing she had deemed acceptable for official use, and I already knew she would veto any comfortable clothing.

I clenched my watch in a fist, knuckles white as they hold the bronze disc for comfort. My legs needed to be forced to move in the direction of my changing room, and my gait was more of a stiff march than the casual stroll I had attempted. There were still a few hours until the ball, but I had the feeling that the grooming process would take far longer than it would if I did it on my own as the professionals made sure every hair was in place, every seam was perfectly aligned, and whatever else they deemed necessary. I pushed myself into the familiar routine and prepared for the battle of social activities.